


In A Name

by Abby_Ebon



Category: Chronicles of Riddick Series, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 13:49:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abby_Ebon/pseuds/Abby_Ebon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Serpent In The Shadow's Challenge #7. HP&PB&DF&CoR cross. Riddick knew Harry as his mentor, then Harry was killed by mercs - or so he thought - and Riddick hunted mercs in revenge. Then he met, quite unwillingly, Antonia Chillingsworth and found Harry very much alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Call Me Riddick, Or Die."

**Author's Note:**

> Serpent in the Shadow's
> 
> CHALLENGE #7
> 
> Harry Potter/Dark Fury/Chronicles of Riddick Crossover  
> Pairing: Harry/Riddick
> 
> Summary:  
> Raised as a weapon, Harry doesn't know what to do with himself now that the war is over. At the age of 25, and unable to live among wizards or muggles, Harry begins to drift from place to place doing odd jobs to keep his 'blood thirst' down to a manageable level. One day, a woman by the name of Antonia Chillingsworth gives him an answer to his problems. As a collector of criminals, she's been keeping tabs on the 'boy-who-lived' and likes what she sees, but instead of turning him into a statue, she offers to let him live on her ship and 'play' with the ones she deems unworthy.
> 
> Not caring that he would be killing off criminals, Harry accepts but finds everyone of his opponents an unworthy challenge - he never once has to use his magic, just his sword - until one day his 'master' pits him against a man named Riddick.
> 
> As they fight, Harry finally finds himself faced with someone who will challenge him and has to use his magic against someone for the first time in years. It thrills him. Intrigued, the match suddenly ends at a stalemate when Riddick leaves the area and goes after Harry's 'master' and gets away. Interested in this unknown person, Harry secretly follows him and the two others that were captured along with Riddick, around the ship, even going as far as to kill off some of the released Mercs that were set loose to capture the three and bring them back - allowing Riddick and the others to escape the ship.
> 
> Harry takes advantage of the fact that the small girl has killed his 'master' and also leaves. He does killing jobs again to get by. He never sees either one of them again til he was captured by Mercs and sent to a prison known as Crematoria.
> 
> Requirements:  
> \- Slash between Riddick and Harry  
> \- Harry was raised to be a weapon, he does not care about killing and has a 'cold' personality.  
> \- Harry knows wandless magic, so you don't have to worry about his wand - he uses a sword more though.  
> \- Please, don't make Harry a weak person. I prefer a strong, 'alpha' type personality with him.

He watched her from the darkness – she was sealing them inside – seeing how air-tight this sorry excuse for a cramped space faring vehicle was. She didn't know he was there – watching, studying – keeping out of the way until _he_ was ready and they had gained some trust in him.

His plan had been to talk to her – for he did nothing without a plan no matter who claimed otherwise…to gain some of her sympathy, she was, after all, a bleeding heart – a _guilty_ bleeding heart, his favorite kind.

It was very likely he would survive the longest here – for unlike them, he was not human and that made him all the harder to kill. But why chance it? He wanted – in the very least, someone of authority to put doubts in their head.

The preacher he couldn't find within himself to speak with. Though it wasn't because he didn't believe – he absolutely believed he had been handed more miracles then he deserved – but not when it really mattered. No – when it had really mattered, Harry had died, killed by people who were supposed to protect the innocent.

Now Riddick hunted them – Mercs, they'd killed Harry, and Riddick would see all the Mercs dead or die attempting it.

That left the "Captain" before him, who was not a Captain at all. By her own words, she had been the one trying to kill them – the real hero, like Harry – had died in the crash. For that reason alone – that she truly mourned her fellow crew member, kept Riddick from killing her outright.

To see the face that had inspired such guilt had been the reason Riddick had stupidly got caught. He had thought – maybe, just maybe he would see Harry's face in the dead mans. He hadn't – Harry was Harry, no last-minute hero would replace him.

For all that he was speaking with the woman before him, his thoughts were elsewhere. What was on the surface was alien to her – openly seeking out any weaknesses to exploit, hissing hushed words at her – anything to tie even the smallest amount of her loyalty to him.

All the while – he was remembering someone else.

_Harry was young – no more then ten years older then Riddick – but his eyes were ancient. Green eyes that Riddick would always remember – they hadn't even been surprised when faced with a fifteen year old boy desperate to kill him._

_Riddick had breached the outside walls, slipped inside the bedroom window, belly crawled to the bed – and straddled his victim, preparing himself for the kill. He had thought himself clever – but in truth, the twenty year old Harry had known of him since he approached the house, breaching the wards._

_Harry had never been in any real danger from Riddick – Harry had merely been curious why the fifteen year old would approach the 'haunted' house in the dead of night. When he had slipped into the bedroom, Harry had known Riddick was there to kill him. Harry had put himself in a vulnerable position, all in his efforts to save Riddick from becoming a murderer so young._

_Harry's eyes had snapped open – and Riddick had been mesmerized by them. That was before realizing the man beneath him was very much alive and aware and Riddick – though he had trained for this for months – found he could not kill the living man._

_"So you have some to kill me, little Richard?" Riddick's eyes were wide – vulnerable for all that he had his target trapped beneath him._

_His name wasn't Richard though – no one called him that, that name was too normal, to plain for a killer. He was called Riddick by the gang he ran with. Riddick had not heard that name aloud for many years – at least before he was ten._

_"How do I know that name?" Harry smiled, and Riddick felt like running as far away as he could – it was not a scary smile, it was on that told Riddick without words that Harry…understood. No one was supposed to understand him – he was a killer, or at least he would be after tonight._

_"A little bit of advice, Richard, if you are going to kill someone – know their strengths and weaknesses. For instance – never look a Wizard in the eyes." As Harry spoke, Riddick realized his mind felt foggy and numb – at Harry's last words, Riddick slumped against Harry's chest._

_Harry drew him closer to his chest, turning him over so Riddick lay prone on the bed. Harry had sat up, fully dressed; before Riddick could demand to know what Harry had done to him he was asleep._

_That had been there first meeting – and when Riddick awoke it was to a changed world. His gang was gone – some said they had been killed, some said the cops had come. In either case Riddick had suspected – and still did – that Harry had had something to do with it all._

_There had been news reports for days after of a city official having ties to gangs and using the 'misguided youth' to do his dirty work of killing – Harry had been in the trail. The man had been killed a week later and at times Riddick still wondered if Harry had had something to do about it._

_Harry had never said, not even when Riddick had asked outright – in any case it was far too late to find out now._ Riddick brushed the memories aside, trying to think only of what the "Captain" before him needed to hear to take his side if something happened to compromise his life.

"Looks like we're a few shy…." He'd spooked her – in all honesty it was almost too easy to. Like recognized like, after all –she knew him to be a killer, although she didn't know he knew her to be the same. "Power cells." Riddick said – motioning at them with the knife in his hand.

"They're coming." Fry reassured, though the truth was plain on her face. There were no back-ups, but she was afraid - Riddick knew his senses to be more advanced then hers – so he inhaled, deeply, smelling her.

Three suns kept them sweating, and in some cases stinking – but it was a natural stink – one he could handle with ease. For a moment he was grateful there was no readily available water here – no stinking perfumes or soaps to keep him from identifying her scent. Once he had her scent – he would know her anywhere, anytime- as anyone.

She didn't need to know that though.

"Strange, not doin' a run-up on the main drive yet." He murmured, eyes looking around the ship, it was a type he recognized and could fly easily enough. "Strange unless he told you the particulars of my escape." Riddick didn't have to say who – Johns.

"I got the quick and ugly version." Fry mutters, looking away from him, something akin to horror passing in her eyes. Riddick didn't take it personally – she was only seeing what she could have been reflected in him.

"And now you're worried about a repeat of history?" Riddick asks – though he knew he needn't have – the truth of it was written out like bold black letters on plain white paper.

"Entered our minds." Fry bites out, like it's Riddick's fault Johns' got it in his pretty lil' head to scare her.

"I asked what you thought." Riddick muses somewhat amused by her – she would hold it against him that he killed, in fear of becoming like him. It would keep her from doing what was needed to survive – but she had the potential. That was better then most of the lot here.

"You scare me, Riddick. That's what you wanna hear, isn't it? There I admit it, can I get back to work now?" If there is one thing Riddick knew he already liked about Fry it was that she had a bite to her- and she was bluntly truthful. He could smell that much.

As if to show him how brave she is, for all that she has admitted he frightens her - she turns her back to him, pretending to work again on an automatic system. Riddick moves in closer, testing her –using the intimidation as an excuse to scan the controls, she's feeling the pressure now.

"Think Johns is a do-right man? You think I can trust him to cut me loose?" Her fear-smell flares. She swallows, nervous. Riddick shows no expression – she had realized her mistake – he had a dagger to her back- one he was skilled enough to use. Then again, Riddick was here to get her sympathy – not to kill her, or get her killed. If he had been planning on killing her – he wouldn't have let her see him – some part of her must realize that, or did she think him that stupid?

"Why, what'd you hear?" Fry asks him – for a moment he wonders if she really wants to know, she's so tense. But she's a grown woman – if she had the courage to ask him, he would answer her plainly.

"Well I guess if it was just trick ration he'd just do me, huh? Then again…I'm worth twice as much alive." Riddick saw her expression change, she'd thought he – Johns - was a cop, most do. One look at that badge and the Blue Eyed Devil has most sheep fooled. As he whispered truths and half truths into her ear, filling the silence with his talk, he could tell when she began to doubt.

Began to wonder at the truths she had been told so carelessly.

"Didn't know? Johns ain't a cop. Oh, he's got that shiny badge an' all, but nah- he's just a merc, and I'm just a payday. That's why he won't kill me. The creed is greed." That same greed had killed Harry – and that was why he killed Mercs – they were willing to throw their lives away for a bit of money and the hunt of a person. Well – Riddick hunted them back – and they feared him, only ones like Johns didn't care – the greed was enough of a motivation for him.

"Save it Riddick, we aren't going to turn on each other – no matter how hard you try." Fry says her tone dancing on fear and courage - she's so sure of that. Fool. One last word then, the suggestion was planted. Besides – he really didn't want to stay in the ship any longer then necessary. Sure he could fly them – but he hated cramped places, they reminded Riddick of cells.

"I don't truly know what's gonna happen when the lights go out, Carolyn – but I do know that once the dyin' starts, this little psycho family of ours is gonna rip itself apart. So you better find out the truth. Come nightfall, you better know exactly who's at your back." What he had worried about – the hull, was good, and as Riddick started to leave, he decided to give her a reason to go chew Johns out - the man still annoyed the hell outta Riddick, for all that they had a 'deal'.

"Richard – …" she began but Riddick had stopped – coldly, he looked at her – and she flinched back when the grip on the dagger tightened, "sorry.." it was faint with her fright, but it was what saved her.

"Only one person can call me that without fearing for their life – and you aren't them. This is the only warning. Call me Riddick – or die." There was a ruthless – the sudden presence of blood thirsty predator rearing up in his eyes – reflected in the windows, and in her own eyes.

Riddick turned away, his heart hammered in his chest as he tried to calm himself. He would not kill for the mere whisper of his own name on another's lips – there had been a time when he would have – and if she had been a Merc he wouldn't have held back – but it had been an accident. She'd probably just seen his name on a tag and assumed to be friendly – but no one was that friendly.

Richard was what Harry had called him – and Riddick had only trusted him, now – he had no one.

Finally, his time ran out – the small ship hissed open, and as he turned to leave he murmured an accusation so soft that if she had wanted to, she could have ignored him, or convinced herself he had said something else. Somehow – he didn't think she would do either, she would act on his information – and when she did, he would have a part of her trust.

"Oh, ask him 'bout those shakes. And why your crew-pal had to scream like that before he died." It wasn't something he enjoyed – Harry had made sure he knew that the only time it was acceptable to manipulate people was in a life or death situation. This was that – in the very least.

Having left her, he went to explore.

It wasn't so much to see what was here as to scout out the area and clues to what had happened.

He spotted the girl child following him. She acted the part of a boy – and Riddick saw no reason to tell her he knew otherwise. He doubted any of the others knew – he had the advantage over them with what he was. Not even Harry though had known what, exactly, Riddick was.

For the most part the not-knowing did not bother him as much as he supposed it should. All that had really mattered to him in the past was that he could use his abilities to protect Harry. Now – he couldn't.

Now what he lived for was revenge.


	2. "Memories, Don't Dare Forget"

"Well," her voice was smoky though it was tinted with professionalism, "I suspected we'd meet, though I must admit I'd thought to see you among better company." She was the sort of woman a man would do things for, simply for her favor.

With lush lips and dark lashes, her long lavender hair added to her physical attraction. Before her were her latest "guests" six men in warn clothing, a gruff look to them – criminals, stowaways – misfits. They hadn't been well fed, and there was a desperation to them that would have sent chills down the spines of those who knew what near death could bring you to.

They did not move, not to run – not to make an attempt to hurt her. They did not dare to do something of the like. They had seen her kill, had seen her men take their ship in easy maneuvers that showed tangles and snares only when forced. Her people were well trained – experts. She would have it no other way.

The man who she addressed didn't look as if he should have such attention put upon him. Yet, of all of them, he had been bound by restraints the most – his hands and fingers especially immobilized.

He didn't look bothered by the heavy metal, though he should have been crushed by it – or looked like he would have been. He was wiry build – for those on the ship who rude enough to call him "slender" had somehow had their tongues removed – though he shorter then the woman he faced, and thin enough to look as if he could be a child it was his eyes that told the truth.

Beneath a spill shoulder length wild black hair, green eyes darker then her own pale green peeked though. There was something strange about those eyes….that was unnatural. The woman smiled slowly, catching his attention only then.

Until her smile he had stood still, barely breathing, eyes taking in his surroundings, flicking that way and this. He didn't seem to focus on one thing. Now he did. Anyone else would have started screaming.

There was murder in that look, a giddy delight in death. The woman only inclined her head in a gesture of respect. She knew intimately what he had survived – memorized the details that were skimmed over by anyone sane – she admired him his ability.

"Do I know you?" His voice was rough, as if he had not had much to drink.

"You do not," her nails slid against the skin of his cheek, "but I promise; we will know each other well." A fool would have thought she meant to take him to her bed. Shadows moved in green eyes, a realization occurred, the green eyes darkened. Blood had been promised to be shed by both alike.

Blood would be paid.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"Please, be seated." The woman asked of him, gesturing to a couch – plush red - like fresh spilled blood. He sat, for now obedient even as the chains about his wrists clanked, and his guards fretted over where to position themselves and their weapons to the greatest advantage of survival.

"You must wonder what I intend to do to you…" She mused tapping a finger to her lips, what would look coy only looked like a threat. He was again looking about himself, as if he could not quite settle, he did not feel comfortable. It was just as well, he was not meant to be comfortable.

"Not really, nothing you do that I can't undo." It seemed that his words were fact, so far as he was concerned. He truly believed that too. It could have been superiority – or ignorance – if the words had come from anyone else. She knew this to be his truth. It was peculiar, but it was not something that could be disproved.

He had lost a hand – a hand that she had had removed in the struggle only hours ago as the ship was taken – yet, that injury seemed as if it had never happened. He had a new hand, grown from nothing – as she had the discarded limb still. It was not artificial; neither did it have DNA that was of someone else. Fascinating, still, there was something more then mere proof of medical anomaly that she wanted of him.

"Truly, Mr. Potter, you are a baffling modern marvel. What some might call "the perfect solider"… though we all know what a soldier is, do we not..?" Her lips pressed only a little when his answer was slow in coming. It seemed to her that he hadn't known an answer was expected. He would soon learn better.

"A killer…." His answer was no nonsense; there was no emotion in it, merely acceptance of a fact.

"That is right; do you know where you are?" It was a soft question; full of something like curiosity – thick with annoyance - yet his eyes had locked with her. Something in the shadows of the green eyes – bright like ancient choking veins – stirred; he tilted his head only then – his gaze purposely absent. He meant to act the fool that knew more then what was given credit. She did not underestimate him.

"Merc ship, Cleo 4th-Class, registered to Lady Antonia Chillingsworth of the Mercenary Guild." Only then did the green eyes leave hers, she had stiffened in her seat. He was not meant to know so much. It was more then impressive. It was eerie. She smiled again, slowly, he seemed almost amused.

"They do not give you enough credit. I will tell you now, Harry Potter, I have longed looked for you. You grew up on Earth; your home world is particularly violent, though rarely do they venture far from their system. You…you on the other hand, seemed to have run from your world. You took odd killing jobs; it was inevitable that you come in contact with the Furyans. Some thought you'd met your death with them, they are not known for their kindness in finding mercenaries trudging about their worlds and systems. Yet, strangely, we have accounts that deter this assumption, instead they seemed almost _attracted_ to you, something like a carnal desire – an attraction. This was a working partnership, and then, strangely – like a whisper, they faded. We think they are all dead. Yet you live. One would think you would have something to do with their dead…" She paused then, to take a sip of water, his eyes trailed down the glass almost like a touch – then flinched away.

"I do not think you had anything to do with their extinction. I think you want revenge. I think you know what you are hunting – and I do not guess to why it took you to this system." She was inviting answers, but he said nothing, almost cruelly, she spilled the water onto the floor while he watched.

"I will nonetheless, take advantage of this opportunity. Do you know what I do with my bounty, Potter?" Antonia asked softly, it was obvious that this was the point she had wanted to get around to all along. Harry lifted his lip in something like a snarl – or a smirk.

"You know I do not." She had kept her eyes from his, it was part superstition, but there were rumors that this man could read minds if allowed a glimpse into another's eyes. She had seen enough to be suspicious that these were not only rumors – that perhaps they carried some weight.

"I collect those I find worthy of their title – the filth and monsters, criminals, and man-slaughters – genius by another name. I make them into my frozen trophies, preserved for the ages with all their skills, yet they can do no harm and those I work with are satisfied with their helplessness. Some might call me cruel – but I like to think of my self as a collector. I ask not your opinion on my hobbies; rather, I have a proposition." Her fingers threaded through her hair, even as she flicked it behind her, watching his expression shift from annoyance to wary amusement.

"I would rather die then be a trophy." She laughed, a low delighted chuckle, a bed room voice. There was no reaction from him, he seemed uncaring – cold to her and her ways. She was not offended.

"I would rather cut my own throat then see the likes of you and yours preserved, you have a sort of _life_ that few could understand – you are only alive when you kill, you live for the moment. Made still, you would be as dead, not preserved – made less. That is not what I seek." There was a warning of steel in her tone, he did not speak again, and she was pleased.

"As you might guess, after I collect my bounty, I have little use for those who are trash – mere piety would-be mimics. It is like art. I used to burn them, but the smell proved overwhelming – then I used them in games, alas, suicide seemed preferred. Some I have turned into loyal pets. Others…well, others are useless trash. I offer a…arrangement, Mr. Potter. You kill my mutts – I will see that you are put to use as a weapon and killer should be. Do you accept?" There was blandness to her tone and features, deadness.

"Will I get to keep my sword?" She smiled, for both of them knew the answer to her question. Antonia would see that he lost none of his skill, and was – perhaps – once in a while challenged; his free wandering ways would no longer trouble the Mercenary Guild.

They might even be pleased that he was in her service.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"Where the hell did the bitch get someone like you?" Brash and young, full of what he could do and what he aspired to, those were the first words Toombs could boast to Harry. It would be a first meeting neither would forget.

There was good reason for his words, everyone whispered of this man who had the physical shape of a boy. It was almost comical; the double edged sword would – for anyone else like Harry – be almost an impossible feat.

Its making was a mystery – as much as 'Mr. Potter' himself – it was an elegant blade tinted with a strange blackened metal, though its use for killing was plain. Its tip was narrow, while it thickened toward the handle, what should have smoothly moved from base to hilt had instead been curled toward the hilt to guard where it would be gripped. Its hilt – a smoky green - was large enough that even resting across his lap – held in both hands to either side of the torso – it still had a blade as long as Harry was tall.

It was impressive.

It was not something someone wanted to be pressed against their throat.

"Let us make something clear, Toombs, we are not friends. I _do not_ like you. I _do not_ want to fuck. You _will_ show Antonia respect, she is your employer." Toombs arched his neck, daring, a small smirk across his lips. He didn't believe Harry would kill him, not in cold blood. This was his warning.

Toombs might not have laid eyes on Harry until now, but that did not mean that Toombs did not know what others whispered, what they knew of this man. Toombs was, to say the least, intrigued. Just the thought of the smaller man under him was enough to get him hard. Harry was not one to submit. Toombs didn't give a damn – he had time, at least a year left on this ship before they hit a world to unload cargo.

Toombs wasn't afraid. Not yet.

"You will find I'll get what I want, eventually. We'll see. As for respect – well, I'll give that she runs a damn fine ship and smoothes the business side of things nicely – but she's as crazy as a bat out of hell." Slowly, Harry smiled, it wasn't a pleasant expression. Toombs tensed, knowing that this had been a set up. It had been a trap he had walked into.

He did not know why Harry had done this, his curiosity tugged at him, even as a woman's voice washed over him.

"Is that what you really think, Toombs? A shame, I'm afraid this is insubordination….back out in the cold for you…" Toombs knew then that he was nothing to Harry – and less then nothing to Antonia. They both saw his "talents" as not good enough; a bother, not even worth killing. Not even a criminal. An embarrassment, perhaps, to be kept out of sight…he grit his teeth as he was led away.

He would see that they regretted such opinions…

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"I have no need of a bodyguard, Junner, now there are positions for mercenary available, but nothing so specialized." Antonia murmured softly, those who knew her as Harry did would know that she was becoming annoyed. Harry was not there to intercept, and in such times, Antonia found she missed his killing calm.

"I must disagree – the boy is your executioner – your scythe, let me be your shield, and I will see that no harm comes to you." His voice irritated her, though no more then some of her more troublesome hired men and contract killers. It was something she could become used to – only Harry with his utter silence, until otherwise prompted, she had found soothing.

"I can see you are determined, so – if this is your will, I will see if my "scythe" and my "shield" would be a match, for I despise when my tools are found…lacking." Antonia walked onward, Junner following at a quick pace behind her. He was a fool she would gladly see disposed of. Yet, his talents were ranked well – even among her peers, be was not without certain attributes. Perhaps this match would surprise her.

"Harry." That one word was all that was needed to bring Harry to focus upon her. His gaze settled, it was something to be proud of – over their long familiarity he now trusted her – and sometimes, his surroundings.

"This man claims I need a shield to match you, what say you?" His opinion was valuable to her, as he knew – he did not overuse such awareness. In fact, in the years she had known him he had only asked her to see the trouble maker Toombs put in the brig until his contract was fulfilled, or she had use of him.

It was something she did not mind doing. She knew well that Harry was unapproachable to her crew – those who attempted his bed were dealt with swiftly – Harry had little liking or interest in those who could not match his skill - only Toombs would not have taken no or threats to face value.

He had thought it all a challenge. He had been an annoyance.

"I am not with you always, it may yet be worthwhile." His answer surprised her, her crew took great pride in Harry and his abilities – gruesome as they were – had made her and her ship well known as a success. They were among the best. Harry was the best, unrivaled. She could see that Junner was surprised she took the word of the dark haired waif. He would soon learn respect.

"As you like, we shall see. Bled him Junner, and I shall consider your…proposal." She saw Harry's hands tighten on his sword hilt, and in the corner of her eye glimpsed Junner unsheathe his own weapon – a rare sight these days – a blade shacked to a gun. She knew it to be detachable.

Junner circled about Harry, who did not move, keeping a steady eye on the taller man with his dark hair and glasses. This was the only time Harry was focused – when he wished to kill. This would not likely go so far – Harry had better control. Junner made the first move – it could be called luck, or something who was inexperienced would do – or someone impatient, but it was the first move and as Junner moved to slice into Harry's side - Antonia sealed her lips against making a sound.

Harry dropped and had tumbled away, giving up the advantage of standing over remaining unmarred. It was a move that could be called amateur. It was not. Harry had grasped his blade, and moved in the next moment as if to lunge toward Junner's middle. It would be a fatal blow – Junner moved his own sword in close moving into the strike to dodge close.

It had never been Harry's intention to kill Junner – it was something the other man had taken quick advantage of. Blood dripped down Harry's cheek. Harry had his own blade pressed snuggly against Junner's navel. It would only have taken a hard movement and a thrust of a blade, and Junner would be dead.

As it was, it was over. Harry had not been beaten – but Junner had drawn his blood. It was better then anyone else could have done.

"It seems you will be a worthy shield, do you not agree Harry?" Antonia could not see Junner's eyes – they were hidden behind shades – but both of them could see the blood lust in Harry. There was something that wanted to see blood, it screamed beneath the surface.

"He will do, Lady Antonia…" In a smooth movement that neither Antonia nor Junner could see completely, Harry had slipped away from the deadly embrace. He brought a finger to his cheek and licked the finger, his eyes on Junner. It was a strangely intimate moment, one which Junner flushed as he looked away from. Harry had proved his point – he was the killer, the murderer, Junner was suited to fighting, but he would be no match in a true struggle between the two.

Antonia was pleased nonetheless.


	3. "Bathed In Blood, Betrayal It Might Be"

"Anyone ever come close…?" It was husky, intimate, a near whisper - a bed room voice. For all that it was a question, it demanded an answer. It set Junner's teeth on edge. Vibrate green eyes slid over to measure him. A mockery of vegetation, of a life that clung weakly to the rays of sunlight, there was nothing giving in those eyes – nothing so weak to relay on the rising and setting sun for life.

Jummer felt keenly the tightening in his belly, the nervous tension that swelled there, keenly feeling his danger. If he gave an answer, it might mean death. He didn't know though what it meant, not really – and there was the danger.

"Once…" It came out as a sigh, a slip of the tongue. He almost regretted it.

"What did it feel like?" There was true emotion in this question, true curiosity.

"There are those emotions you expect; fear, adrenaline, breathless anticipation, there is something else to nearly dying, helplessness though the next small movement could save your life and end another…you'd do anything to stay alive until that moment of movement." Jummer wondered why he was telling this to Harry. How could he expect anyone to understand? This was a question that no one had dared –yet - to ask; until Harry.

Harry with his green eyes, green like growing things, though there was a poison in those eyes and he thought sometimes to see shadow veins move in the depths. Still those eyes chilled him. What should be warm and life giving was cold, ice like with an intensity that burned. That seared into the soul. You'd freeze when caught in the gaze of those eyes, if Harry only wanted to kill you.

"Poetic." Jummer could not help but wonder if it was his words – or thoughts – that Harry had commented on. He grunted though, a non-answer, looking out into the vast stars and the spill of darkness just beyond reach, kept at bay by mere man crafted metal and airtight plastics. If the hull became compromised, standing so close with no protection – there was no question of time - they would die. It was that sort of thrill of danger and death he lived for. He wondered what Harry saw of the void, if he recognized that sort of death as something to be realized, to be feared. Or was he only alive in a conflict, where a man risked skill and breath for a struggle of continuing life.

"I suppose. What of you?" Jummer did not quite realize he had asked the question – that he had meant to ask something so dangerous – until it slipped past his tongue and into his ears. He held his breath. He could not take such words back. He dared look to Harry, yet where he had expected to see death, there was only startled greed. Jummer knew then that he lived because he had surprised Harry. He had not taken offence. It was enough to take another breath.

"From birth a man – a murderous monster to some accounts - hunted me until I killed him. He was indeed a murderer; having killed my friends – my parents – even my teachers. There was a connection between us, a tie I do not understand even to this day. … _and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives_...I think he meant for me to take his place …" His voice faded to silence. Or perhaps, Jummer thought, he had nothing else to say.

"Have you?" Jummer asked, unable to help himself. If this was his once chance to learn what he could, he would take it. It was parts curiosity. More of it then he liked was from the thrill, the utter boldness he felt at asking what he dared. It could have meant death. With words alone he straddled a line between living and dying. It was addicting. Thrilling.

"I do not know." Jummer stared at Harry, not sure of what to make of his answer, if it was indeed an answer. Harry did not return the look, instead his eyes narrowed to the void before them. Jummer glanced to it, expecting nothing. Instead he caught sight of the glittering silver of a skiff, a little ship no more useful then a raft to cling to in the midst of an ocean. Jummer chuckled then, realizing what it meant. No one was stupid enough to leave the often traveled trails saving for those that were desperate. Poor souls with a past they wished only to run from. The sort of past that Antonia took a keen interest in.

"Send a lure out and reel them in." Antonia spoke from behind them, looking to Jummer. He nodded to them, knowing this to be a test of his abilities. Antonia lingered only to give Harry a searching look, keen in its intent. Slowly, he nodded. Antonia smiled, though it was somehow kinder then her usual intents.

Jummer didn't question them, as he had a feeling he would find his answer of what was going on soon enough.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"Let me guess," Antonia murmured softly as Jummer walked tensely beside her, "you are curious to why Harry is absent – and to our newly acquired cargo." Jummer did not dare say anything, if indeed Antonia was in a mood to give answers he was unwilling to ruin it. He knew only a name – Riddick – it was not enough as he knew Antonia was keen on this man in particular. He also knew somehow Harry and Riddick knew each other. Wha should have been reassuring was not.

"When Riddick was a child, he and our Harry were more then friends – less, I think, then lovers – it came to a partnership with an enforcer group – the Rangers, now nearly extinct. What is left of them has converted into Mercenaries. Not noble – not loyal, merely greedy. The revelation of their corruption came into common knowledge by the actions of our Harry – and this man. Yet, Harry knew Riddick survived, while Riddick thinks our Harry six feet under frozen ground. For his own reasons – which we both shall respect – Harry does not want Riddick to know he has joined our ranks." Antonia lectured, tone alone providing Jummer with reason enough not to go against her wishes. Antonia was nothing if not possessive, it seemed that if frozen criminals were counted among her possessions so too were her protectors and those that she was fond of.

"I do this for Harry because in all the years I have known him he has admitted to one weakness, Jummer." Antonia with her pressed lips knew very well she held his attention. Jummer had tensed his shoulders, he had gotten used to the thought of Harry being something more – or less then – human, yet a weakness was human. His foundation for that truth shook.

"This boy, Jummer, was the only one Harry would let kill him if so demanded. Riddick would not understand the sway he has over our Harry. It is something we must protect him from. Harry has sought out a place to hide. It is our duty to distract Riddick until he is at a disadvantage and becomes part of my collection in that moment. Then our Harry will be safe." Antonia's words made sense. Harry was nothing if not logical. Yet only about conflict was he reckless. Only then did he show weakness. Jummer knew then that it was safest for them – and for Harry – if Harry hid away while his past walked these halls.

"I understand." Antonia looked gratefully to him, though it was the only show of emotion between them that the others witnessed. It was then that he was very much aware of Harry's absence. Neither of them liked that – neither felt whole. In this, Jummer would act as one with Antonia to ensure this was remedied swiftly.

Still, he could not help but be eager about meeting a man who would wield a power of life a death over a man he had considered a mentor since their meeting.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

It was not going well.

Harry wondered if the way his chest pounded was out of love. Or fear. Perhaps neither being maybe something else all together. He closed his eyes, knowing he would hear the snarls of a creature that was blind to all but the warmth and life that pumped though the hearts of those around him.

It suffered for its loss of sight, for it hungered for that which it could only see in those around it. It was his creation, his monstrous mix of machine and creature. It ran to its prey, ran towards him; Riddick. In its making, Harry had only later realized his creation mimicked him in its own way.

Antonia would only have set loose among her mercs on the hunt if things were going badly. The creature did not see the difference between foe and friend. It was a flaw in genetics that Harry had yet to work out. Now it was after Riddick. Harry ached for his own part to play in Riddick's death. If the creature killed Riddick….he would be to blame.

Harry's lips twisted in a snarl. He would let nothing kill Riddick. Though it was not one of his better ideas, Harry moved from where he had taken refuge in the hangers. Here all sound was stilled and focused. Harry had heard everything that had been going on. With every step he remembered it. Riddick had found himself in a hanger much like this one though with a certain difference of gravity. There had, of course, been a conflict. Riddick had not been raised to go easily; for all that his choices had been limited and the odds against him.

Riddick was not alone. That had come as something of a surprise.

There was a girl. That had stung, that he might have been replaced in Riddick's heart so easily. It did not yet matter how close the two were. Or what the connection would mean after things settled. It still ached.

Also, yet the most peculiar, a holy man….

Harry did not know what to make of _that_. He dared not even guess.

Antonia was nothing if not brilliant at twisting people's emotions, at using them to achieve her own goals. To all others she was a puppet master. This was possibly the first time she had failed. She had thought to give Riddick a reason to feel guilt. Kept alive to be bait, the girl and holy man had played a part in her games. She had always wanted to experience the struggle she had only seen in aftermath. A true killer challenged by her own workings and creatures. Riddick was not so easily manipulated. He had done what she had thought impossible. He had killed her creatures and kept his two companions alive. Then they had fled.

Antonia, for all she played the icy queen, had a temper. She had awakened her mercs – and set loose his creature against Riddick. A phrase run though his mind, mundane though it was, it fit. _All the kings men, all the kings horses_ … Only the king was a queen. She had nothing less in mind then killing Riddick in cold blood, there would be no putting a broken egg back together again for her men.

She had perhaps realized that lacking control, she had allowed Riddick to wander her ship. Maybe he would find Harry, or Harry him. She would cause, perhaps, what she had intended to keep from happening all along. Harry would live or die by strangers will. He was willing to give it up, if it meant that Riddick would forgive him in the end.

Harry paused, his boots felt heavy on the metal floor. Though his toes he felt the _thump-thump_ of the running creature he had designed. There was a long hiss as his blade kissed its sheath, perhaps saying goodbye. Inanimate objects, Harry had to remind himself, did not know what was to come anymore then he.

Harry was not used to being taken by surprise. He was when Riddick sprinted into sight.

"Damn-it, I've not got time for you…" Riddick did not know him. Did not yet recognize him, Harry was grateful and disappointed all at once. He eyed the sliced arm – the shirt. He had more then idea, he had a plan.

"Take off your shirt. Use the cuts. It seeks your blood – there are men behind you, let them be hunted by what seeks you." Harry offered before Riddick could come near, or think to attack or defend against him. Harry kept his blade exposed all the same. He held it, relaxed, though at the ready. Riddick was all too aware of that, but he was as keen as he had always been following Harry's line of thought and words with action as he pulled the shirt from slick skin and let blood soak into it. Only then did he look up, having dropped the shirt, his blood scabbing over the self inflicted wound. Silver eyes caught light, though they stood in the dark.

"Turn about is fair play, I guess. Thanks. Who the hell are you?" It was a demand, still bitter; it was one Harry managed to swallow the answer to. Men were coming and the creature would be close at their heels.

"Climb." It was a demand, and as it meant survival, Riddick nodded as he followed it. Harry knew parts of the ship as easily as he knew swords, and knowing how to climb into the ceiling was something that he did to get away from watchful eyes. There was no cause to speak, for time had run askew.

With a slight smirk, Riddick watched the mercs come into the room, searching it. Only one of them caught sight of the shirt before the creature came and they realized their trap. Then they were the prey, for while most stood and fought, the others ran. The creature did not yet go after them, scenting his blood and body heat

"Aim for the flesh beneath the frill." Riddick leaned forward, his skiv clutched in his hand, tilted just so. He had to time the purposeful fall just so. If he missed he could hurt himself badly – perhaps enough to be an invalid. Odds were good that this would be a one time chance. He took it.

It was all too satisfying to feel the blue hued blood chill his skin, remembering the brittle crunch of the shiv going into the skull and brain of the beast.

"Not your first kill." It was only when the man spoke that Riddick remembered he didn't know his name, though there was something about him that was all too familiar. Riddick knew he had to find it out. Before any reasonable person would have been able to respond, Riddick had flung himself at the dark haired man.

Harry was ready for him, though when shiv clashed against sword, Riddick was surprised Harry had the strength he did. Riddick was built muscular, his bones dense, a sign of a heavy world born man. Harry was built slight, but had better upper body strength then Riddick would have given him credit for.

"No, not my first kill – who the _fuck_ are you?" Riddick sneered just a little, for though the others words had been bland they felt like an insult; he wondered, who on this merc ship wouldn't know how to kill?

"You knew me once." Riddick gained the advantage then, or Harry let him take it. It was how Riddick found himself straddling the slender man, pinned down between his thighs. Harry wasn't disappointed. He chuckled, for the first time the fringe of his black hair parted and the pale white lightning bolt scar stood in jagged relief. Riddick glared into the dark green eyes, for they were unchanging even with the illusion of humanity in the laughter. His silver eyes widened, flinching.

" _Harry_ …how?" It was a plea, and something like pity or kindness stirred in the green eyes. Silver eyes gleamed, shivering in the dark for the defensive move had turned into an embrace, and Riddick curled into and against Harry, lips brushing the sensitive skin of the others neck.

"Richard …" Harry shook his head only a little, a faint sorrowful smile on his lips. Riddick was his weakness. Harry took in the sight of the bloodshed about them. The blood he laid in was not Riddick's but it could have been. He realized then that he was Riddick's weakness. Riddick could not have a weakness if he were to survive. Harry closed his eyes tightly, breathing in slowly, enjoying the lingering scent of rust and blood and the scent of Riddick and his musk and sweat. The heat of his body against his own, he would miss most of all.

"I am sorry…" Harry murmured against Riddick's shoulder. He felt Riddick's hand clutch at his hair, it was painful and deliberate. It was to ensure Riddick knew he was real. He did not mind the reminder.

"Don't be, what _happened_ to you?" Riddick asked softly, Harry kissed his shoulder, his heart sinking and aching all at once as Riddick's bigger body slumped against him. Unconscious. He would waken when Harry was far enough away. As gently as Harry could afford, he rolled Riddick to his side. Pausing only to sit up and fetch his sword before standing slowly, affording himself one last lingering look to Riddick before he fled.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"Gone again..." He watched the skiff drifting into the void. Toombs did not expect to be answered when he spoke those words, yet he was.

"It continues." Toombs tensed up, glancing over his shoulder to Harry –ranking officer, newly appointed captain. They had found Antonia and Jummer, bodies cooling, in the hanger Riddick had used to escape with his holy man and girl. Harry hadn't been seen until now. Some had thought he had had a hand in the killings. Toombs didn't think so. Even so he had questions.

"Whose side are you on? I smelt you, spice and bloodied leather, in that room where your creature was slaughtered at." Toombs looked away from the void with its endless dark and scattering of stars. Harry nodded his head in acknowledgement of the words. Toombs all the same had to wonder to the reason Harry had sought him out.

"My own side, Toombs, the side that survives against the odds; do you want to survive?" Harry asked it softly, his head tilted with curiosity. Toombs wanted a lot of things. Revenge was one, for though he hadn't liked Antonia much, this ship and what it represented had meant something to him. Antonia had given him that. He didn't bother to ask if Harry would keep the ship, he would not; it wasn't in his nature to tie himself to a vessel.

"That a threat, Captain?" Toombs asked with a frown and narrowed eyes. He didn't grasp yet what Harry wanted to tell him. Wanted him to beware of, Harry was almost skittish of whatever it was, which was most unlike Harry.

"Mere facts…" Harry offered, though there was not yet any threat to him. That made Harry all the more dangerous to Toombs. Harry never looked like anything that might kill you – yet he would without hesitation. Toombs didn't know how Harry dealt with loss, and whatever the men and women might think – this was a loss for him. Antonia and Jummer had been more then companions or commander; they had been Harry's only acknowledged friends. They were gone – dead – now. Killed by Riddick, Toombs knew Harry should want revenge more then Toombs did, yet it didn't seem to be in him.

"Yeah…" Toombs answered Harry plainly even as he studied his expression, wondering what it was he saw there. He was tired. And…Toombs narrowed his eyes as Harry looked to the void, his features shifting. Only then did Toombs recognize what he saw. Wary. That was as good as outright screaming fear for some.

"Then it would be best if you fled this ship with me. We are weakened, even so, if we weren't…I would have advised Antonia to flee from what is coming." Harry sounded like he only commented on the weather; there was nothing of the challenge for life and death or conflict in his tone. Only acceptance and wary regard, Toombs looked to the void, recognizing the shifting shivers of light and color as an approach, not yet here but within reach. Something was coming. Something that Harry acknowledged as a threat to him self.

"What is it?" Toombs could not help but ask, even as Harry turned his back and began to walk to the escape shuttle. Toombs took one last glance behind himself before he stalked after Harry, hurrying only a little.

"Necromongers…" Even in the void there were ghost stories, but Harry was only one of them – the Necromongers were the other nightmare. Toombs thought only a moment of what might happen if one nightmare ghost met another; would they aide each other? Kill each other? He decided he didn't want to know. He wouldn't find out either, for Harry was leaving and Toombs was determined not to be left behind.

He still held to his grudge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …next chapter takes place in "Chronicles of Riddick" on the planet Crematoria…I did say this would "jump"….I'm impressed, I was fairly sure that everyone would have forgotten this story….it was, after all, months in the wait…-flinches- so here is another chapter, if only because I feel guilty…. Also, this won't be the only one of its like out there (which was the point of writing a challenge, after all) waveringphoenix has messaged me about taking the same challenge (#7) of Serpent in the Shadows as I did, check the story out when it is posted! It should be interesting!
> 
> Also, you should know this chapter is inspired by Etidorpha and her awesome Harry/Riddick story "Red Sun Rising" which I've recently read and fallen in love with. I'm a bit obsessed at the moment with it…. –Coos-
> 
> Also 'cause The Plot Bunny Whisperer asked for a chapter…-grins-
> 
> edit; thanks to Koruyuha for noticing my error of Necromongers/Necromancers....gah...


	4. "Chill Down Your Spine, Murdering Mind"

"So, boss man, what's _his_ story?" Toombs had come to expect the question, over the years of shifting crew mates and replacements, only one person had, after all, lingered in the shadows after all these years. Toombs knew better then to glance to Harry, who had settled for squatting down between the spines that made up the skeleton of the ship, his head tilted down giving the impression of sleep. He knew better then to think Harry wouldn't hear or that Harry was anything but alert to everything.

No one, at least, had asked why _he_ was allowed to sit where he wanted, while Toombs ordered the rest of the crew to seat in the be damned deck-seats and shut their yaps long enough for chilled vapors to sink into their lungs and knock them out till they got to a planet with a dock and civilized ship trade and criminal chart. Harry might well have been the only person who stirred and walked about in those voyages.

It was costly to keep a crew awake when the ships navigational system could get to point _A_ and _B_ easier without a pilot blundering things about. It was standard operating procedure for most space-searching merc ships like his. Toombs could have said any number of things that would make it seem that Harry was doing as he ordered rather then what he liked.

Truth was that he knew Harry hated the thought of being "asleep" when the ship was about and moving with no one the wiser in the freezing sleep. Most accepted it as a part of space travel – not Harry – Toombs had long ago given up and let Harry do whatever he pleased, so long as he didn't cause _too much_ of a stir.

Most people didn't mind the freeze sleep because it did a part to keep them human and sane, while everyone knew their species was a "social animal" being locked in a bucket for months with no one to talk to but those you signed on with could drive even the sanest crazy as bat shit. Sometimes Toombs worried that Harry would kill him in that deep sleep, sure as damned the thought came to his crew likely more then once. He hadn't yet, and Toombs thought he could trust he would not – Harry got a thrill out of killing face to face, one on one, with his victim well aware that the blood pooling out belonged to one of the two.

"Do I look like a damned _story teller_? You want to know his shit, _ask him_." Toombs had found, over the years that those words usually solved the matter. He'd yet to find anyone fool enough to ask Harry, but he was sure that when it happened, it would be… _interesting_.

The big man that Toombs had seen run down a fugitive and wrestle a bit of weaponry that could shoot a nice sized hole though an air tight ship off their mark of the week took one look to the supposedly sleeping Harry and backed off.

"Coward…." It was a girl that drawled the words out, she was a shapely thing that he'd picked up off the rooster a week back. Toombs thought it might be time to let her loose, as he still didn't know her name (could have sworn she'd changed it on him and the crew two days back…) he'd be blind not to see the trouble she might brew among the crew.

"Is that so?" Toombs felt his breath sputter out, and he tensed up so much it might as well be as if he froze. Harry had perfected the art of ignoring his crew, so much so a few of them thought he could not speak. His eyes flicked nervously to the shadow tucked between the spines. Harry sat, still settled on his thighs, though his eyes lingered on the girl a tilt to his head that made his hair fall to his shoulders with a charm that belied the dead green eyes that now glinted with… _something_.

" _Yeah_ …" Her chin jutted forward boldly, exposing the vulnerable flesh of her neck. Her eyes narrowed daringly.

Shadows and shapes shifted across features that had not expressed so much emotion since Toombs had last stared into space and been told in a whisper that if they lingered death would close in a tight embrace. Harry was smiling. A slight shift of lips made all the difference between life and death, something of that tenseness lingered, even when breath huffed out of those same lips in something like a bark and a cough.

It was a laugh. _Harry_ was laughing.

Toombs breathed in though his nose, a rush of inward air that could be heard plainly. Harry did not so much as glance at him….it was the first time since Antonia that Harry had shown such intent interest in anyone. Something had happened, of that, Toombs was sure. He had missed it, despite sitting within a few arms length, this girl had _changed_ things.

Toombs gritted his teeth, knowing he had lost whatever hold he had had.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

He was _the most_ annoying man she had ever met. Mind you, he did not _do_ much of anything to incite her ire (perhaps that was the most annoying of all) merely stood in some shadowy corner and surprised her when she forgot to look for him (this too, she suspected might have been the root of her prejudice against him) none the less, Jack loathed him in a way she had no cause for.

Well, one cause for – he had _laughed at her_ in front of the _Captain_ (who was also a ass, but one who had her grudging respect for getting her off planet) and she did not even know _why_. She knew only that the crew now avoided her like the plague (or were they avoiding her newly acquired shadow?) and no one dared to make a pass on her or met her eyes.

 _That_ was also annoying.

Still, her shadow (as she called him, because he had not _given_ his name and she did not feel inclined to _ask_ the Captain and get laughed at by _him_ , again) had not spoken to her. Though she spoke to him, when she wondered –at times, why she did, she thought she knew; it was better then being alone, or talking at yourself like a crazy person.

His silence irritated her, all the same, because he seemed to think nothing of her chatter, and did not voice or ask an opinion to her reasoning. Two weeks he had followed her, and two weeks she had talked to him as if he should give a damn about what she thought – still, she did not even know _his name_.

She had had _enough_. He did not respond – for she had watched him carefully, to open ended phrases, but the _Captain_ could get a word or two out of him with a direct question. If the Captain could do it – so could she, god damned it! The only time he had said _anything_ without prompting had been when she'd first met him, that being only three words!

He could not be _that_ closed off – it was not natural.

Bottling done the squirming fear (for, damned it, there had to be a reason the crew whispered about him – and now her – with tones of fear, even if she had seen nothing scary about him other then his silence and his following her) she looked him in the eyes, meeting them for the first time since he'd spoken to her.

"What – is – _your_ – _name_?" She shoved the words out, biting them off like they hurt coming out. Now, she knew, she could only wait for his response. He studied her in that moment, making his pause long and drawn out, her lips pulled downward in annoyance, wondering all the while if she would ever be able to keep her temper with him testing it all the time.

"Harry," he made it seem so god-be-damned simple, to get that answer out of him – then, surprising her, he continued, "what is yours?" There was again the lingering pause that made the back of her shoulders tense as if she was watched and judged.

"Jack." She bit out, for it was the truth - a name she had given herself. She had grown used to his silence, his bland or amused features that when they shifted – changed to a sneer and narrowed eyes, her breath was trapped in her throat. She licked her lips, waiting, for she knew that if she made the wrong move now – something _bad_ would happen.

" _Liar_ …." It was one word, a simple accusation – but Harry made it into something else, something very bad. She felt as if she had lost something in his eyes; in that moment she knew why she thought he was annoying in that he never spoke, she had gotten used to him, liked him even – but what he accused her of now; she didn't like it, so she spoke, hoping to protest that word and get back some of what Harry seemed to admire about her.

"Alright, alright, cut that out! It's Kyra, alright?" Harry smiled then – pleasant and pleased with her truth, and she knew she was forgiven.

"You're so _strange_ …" Kyra grumbled to him, he chuckled then, so soft she thought that was the end of their startling odd conversation. Then he spoke again, and there was something off in his voice, some sense of wonder that she would have guessed lost to him.

"You… _like_ me." It was the _way_ he said it, that made his simple words mean more then what she thought they could; in his voice she knew this 'like' she held for him that he observed was not the like of a lover or of someone using another; but the like of a friend.

"Yeah, yeah, just doesn't it spread about in the rumor mills, yeah hear me?" It was meant to be teasing, but when she glanced up to take in his expression – he had been so vividly alive in his frightening anger at her lie, a part of her held hope of seeing that life again; but this time, it was an expression she hadn't seen before. It was serious, thoughtful and brooding. Kyra knew him not to be one to think so drawn out of something, not to say he was a fool or idiot, but he acted when others would have frozen. She liked that about him, and knew he'd always have her back.

"I hear you." Harry parroted at her, seeming to understand she needed the reassurance in the face of his oddly reflective mood. She let him think whatever it was gnawing at him though, and went back to the vid-screen with the latest mission on its glowing face. It was a companionable silence, not once buzzing with her annoyance – that, for now, had faded.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"This is a bad job." It was not the first time Harry had told her this in so many words since the Captain had approached her on the subject of a sub-mission, and Kyra bit her lip to keep from snapping at him.

The others were counting on them; they had to get the fastest ship this dirt ball of a planet had to offer. It was for their escape – while the others did their part of the job, they had theirs. Only problem was the damned ship wasn't in a abandoned rust shop somewhere – oh, no, this ship was held pretty as a picture in the white labs of some company off planet.

They had the skits to the power-flux security system, the floor maps – they had everything they needed from the guard posts to the round shift times. She had nerves enough even still, she could not help it – Harry certainly was not a help in keeping her steady, he was all for dropping this and running back under the safety of the skirts of the ship.

She could not do that, this was the first time the Captain had approached her – trusted her, about seeing something through. Something a little bit more dangerous, a little more risky – a bigger cut, she did not want this to be the last time. It would be, if she failed.

"I know, damned it, but aren't the risks worth it? What's the worst that could happen to us?" Kyra sighed softly, breathing in the plant-and-earth scent of Harry, who never smelled any different in space then on planet side. Harry glanced at her, green eyes gleaming; cat like, even without much light.

"Death; a prison planet – Crematoria, worst." The last word was the softest, and seemed in the eyes of her friend to be the worst-case. Prison wouldn't be so bad, she was sure she could survive – Riddick had. Maybe she could finally have eyes like his. Her lips twitched into an almost smile.

"Don't be such a baby, we'll make it, we always do – and if we don't, well I'm sure the others will fetch us out. Merc's stick together, always do." Kyra watched the guards changing, greeting each other – about to go on a round of the outer building.

"So sure?" His voice was husky, faint, for he did not want to be heard anymore then she did. For that she was grateful, he might take it in his head to teach her a lesson about trust and survival skills at the wrong damned time. She lived in fear of that moment. Still, it was all in good spirited fun. For _him_.

" _Yes_." She hissed, half rolling her eyes, flickering her finger into a gesture to get them off their bellies and get them on their feet running as if hell hounds were chasing them.

"Foolish." Harry insisted, last minute; she would always later regret not listening to him in that moment. He had never been so insistent to their danger, always putting aside his uncertainty when he knew her mind was made up, knowing she was stubborn but loyal to her all the same.

"Shut-up and watch my six, asshole." They were standing, running to the building, when she heard Harry howl with pain, heard the electric volts go down his back - though his arms and legs, smelt burnt flesh – paralyzing him temporarily. It was enough, she saw in the corner of her eye as a wire net was flung down on him. She knew they had been betrayed, for who would not have gone after her first, she was supposed to draw them, while Harry took them out and down. This had been a trap.

She had been betrayed, as the dark swallowed her mercifully, she remembered the Captain's grin and wished him dead.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Wishes, she knew later, would not do _shit_. She'd kill the Captain – Toombs, or let Harry do the job. That was the goal, when they got out. Harry would like that. She knew now that Harry had a _history_ with Toombs, years later and too late to do a damn thing about it. Harry never said it was not her fault that they woke up in the pit of Crematoria.

She took on the burden of the blame all the same, Harry – just he had on the ship, kept her safe from greedy asses who wanted more then her name. He had enough to gnaw on, to worry over, and the time to do it in. She hadn't asked about escape plans, finding this a fitting punishment for foolishness. Harry, because she never asked, did not say anything. She told herself _that_ was the reason, not that they were really stuck here – not that they would die here…

Years passed, bit by bit, she learned more about Harry – and Harry knew about her. Knew about Riddick, about the planet she had nightmares of in the dark. She learned how to survive those horrors of her childhood, how to survive Crematoria was easy, compared to _that_. She knew Harry had known Riddick, as a child – had helped him grow up into a man. Had left afterward, letting Riddick think he was dead. She knew, also, more then Riddick had of Harry that even though Harry _looked_ as young as she, he was older – far older, then she could grasp.

He talked, sometimes, of where he grew up. A planet on the far rim of space, a place where people thought they were the only ones out there, where they thought they were alone. Still, he told her, they fought; they killed just the same and with careless ease. She had asked him how he'd gotten off that hellhole that sometimes seemed worse then Crematoria. He had told her the truth, a people had come from the stars – preachers, invaders, the Necromongers.

She had thought them to be a ghost story for kids, he said they weren't – were, in fact, as real as he was, _hunting_ him.

She'd gotten up the nerve to ask why.

"I am the last." Was all he ever would tell her, never explaining more then that, she thought she knew what happened after the Necromongers, Harry had told her of his planets strong religions – the people their would not have bowed down to one religion, would not, even for their lives. She wondered if the whole planet had, fruitless as it was, rejected the invasion. They would have been slaughtered, all but one.

All but Harry….

Kyra wondered how, but never asked.

Not until Riddick came to Crematoria….to save her...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've started yet another Harry Potter (slash) crossover, this time with the Fast and the Furious (which I have finally watched)…it's called "Faster Then Flying" (slash, Dom/Harry) me thinks they like it, as it has forty reviews….also, I point out now that this story has one chapter left...I might as well just start on a "xXx" crossover at the rate I'm going with this obsession…. –sighs- its all so pretty though…
> 
> Also, only one chapter left for this story, it is meant to be a short one after all, more of an idea spinner then a web. I'm gritting my teeth over this one, I will finish it….though it's almost painful to do so as I love my dark Harry in this story. Hell, I loved Antonia as crazy as she was...


	5. "Kill With A Whisper"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the end after all. *head-desk*

"Toombs will be back." There was something soothing in being told this so matter-of-factly. Harry, after all, never lied. He hardly bothered with idle conversation beyond her musing questions and his own thoughtful answers. It was enough companionship for the two of them, they could hardly ask for more, knowing each other as they did. Harry did one thing well, and that was killing. Harry had no qualms of killing someone that annoyed her – or that harassed her, without even her asking it of him.

Whether convict (who had a sort of code all their own) or inmate (the guards dogs, ratting out anyone so long as they benefited), all in the pit of Crematoria stepped lightly around Kyra, and the wary guarded their expressions and words. No one bothered Harry, they hardly needed to.

Harry wouldn't bother with them, Kyra didn't know what he saw when he happened to notice them, but they weren't a threat to him, only worthless bits of flesh taking up space, and that meant they were less then nothing. That, of course, was Kyra's guess – and she took it to heart, even if the others didn't quite grasp just how strange Harry was, yet, regardless, they knew him for predator. There was just something about Harry that _screamed_ it. Kyra would be first to admit it to be damned useful.

Kyra had lost count of the days (and even if she hadn't a day on Crematoria was twice the length then what she was used to) between when she'd been dropped into the dark pit of Crematoria, and when she'd last felt the freedom of a spacecraft engine rumbling in the marrow of her bones. Looking to Harry for a sign of time passing, was a fruitless gesture, he looked always between thirty and twenty. Kyra envied that raw agelessness. Looking at her own reflection showed only a haggard young woman caught between being a teenager, or in her early twenties. With eyes far older then they should be. Kyra _didn't know_ how old she was.

Still, she knew what it might cost him, watching those around him age and die. It wasn't as if she wasn't seeing the same thing, few lived any significant length on this world; most newcomers didn't last six months. Kyra didn't bother to learn a name, no matter if she was told it, unless she'd seen that person live a year and knew they'd live if only to spite the odds.

Kyra had kept to herself; eyes serious and flat, mouth narrow, since waking that 'morning'. She hadn't spoken a word, either. She knew some of the others, might be calling it sulking – others muttered about brooding females and their monthly bleeds. All of them kept such talk to themselves, knowing well enough to keep out of sight and out of mind. It innerved Kyra, sometimes, that Harry knew her so well as to guess at her thoughts and moods upon waking.

"How did you know?" It was better to say so, to ask, then to dwell on the eerie green eyes that watched her. That might know her better then she knew herself. She would almost think him wary of her, too, if she didn't know better.

"A ship landed." He didn't say anymore; didn't need to. It was enough of an answer in itself.

Kyra nodded, almost absently, they would be blind, dumb, and dead, before they _didn't_ hear the crashing of a ship into the surface, the grinding metal quacking of the downward spiraling tunnel. This had been a natural cavern before miners tried to reach the precious metals only to find the effort not worth their lives.

So the tunnel had been sealed, and sold, and some brilliant asshole had gotten the notion to shove bounty prisoners into the dark on a superheated world. It was a long standing goal of the collective prisoners to shove said asshole down the pit and crack the lid to the surface. See how he liked baking in the darkness.

Of course, there was still gold or some kind of precious metal down here, if prisoners shoveled it up, the guards gave them favors – if the poor blokes survived after the guards let loose the Hellhounds, coming to collect the "buried treasure". Kyra had never found it worth the effort, still, she dug, but not for the guards – no, she dug for her own wealth while Harry kept an absent watch upon her.

Harry, while he did assure her that they'd leave here – one day – didn't quite grasp why planets would trade for stuff buried in the dirt. Or he was just too amused by it to care. It kept him occupied all the same, while no convict would risk his throat to touch her, prisoners just weren't that survival smart. So long as Harry spilt blood, he was content, and no one much complained because no one knew what might happen if Harry got bored, or fidgeted for lack of blood shed.

Still, it kept things interesting, where else even Kyra might have gone mad from boredom.

"Anyone saying anything?" Kyra asked of Harry, doubtfully, not bothering to hide her curiosity to what Harry might have heard while no one was paying attention. For all that they suspected _they_ watched Harry, and were _aware_ of him, it was hardly so simple.

"Many things. Little to know for fact. Sit, wait, watch." Harry in his own short and clipped ways was telling her to stop dwelling on her intents, and foul memories, and _pay attention_ and have _patience_. Of all things. Kyra kept herself from laughing, barely.

"Have it your way." Amusement so dry it seemed to suck the moisture from the air echoed in one of the cooler caverns that Harry had scouted out for their occupation. Harry said nothing more, though he must have heard the laughter - at his expense, in her tone.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Bound by chains, there isn't much Riddick can do in protest – not that he _would_ do anything, he is where he wants to be – when his chains are hooked securely onto a extension rope that lows down into a pit. His shined eyes will be useful here, just as they will be useless on the surface.

All that's left to do is to find Jack – then _get out_. Even as Toombs smirks at him, too smug for his own good – Riddick is several steps ahead. If they knew that, they would know to be afraid – to be wary. It's all part of the charm that they don't suspect. That they underestimate him even now, well, everyone who is _meant_ to does; it's that simple, in the beginning.

Toombs got a glimpse of what he could do, suspects – though he won't admit it – that getting caught was in Riddick's plan. Toombs just can't think of what, between self exile on UV-6 and Helion Prime, could have made Riddick so eager to spend the rest of his life on Crematoria. He can guess, though, that it probably has something to do with the Necromongers; but that isn't Toombs business. So long as he gains the profit, Toombs won't care about what happens after to Crematoria, or Riddick.

Still something like fury stirs, his not quite human instincts hate that he 'let' himself be caught, the primal side of his nature doesn't give a shit about plans, this is darkness and cages, in the end, no matter how short the stay. There is a fear in him, rooted in his fury. There is always the _possibility_ , however remote, that this might be lasting, he's been caught too many times not to consider it.

Even if it is _all part of the plan_ – it rankles, and there isn't anything Riddick can do about it but to keep his mouth shut and hope not to give something of his plans away. All of them have a part to play, relaying on individual nature and skills that they all possesses, that they might think they are being subtle about, but Riddick sees, because he is looking.

Though they can't be expected to know, to suspect, that Riddick sees it and knows what he is looking at. Riddick knows human nature, having been at the wrong end of it most of his life, and even if something goes askew, in the long run, the fact is Riddick _will_ get off this world. Riddick is just passing through.

It strengthens his resolve, even as he is shoved ungracefully down into the dark – the only thing saving him from a nasty fall is the chain around his wrists and arms. Half way down, the rope jolts to a forced stop. His arms, already strained with his weight, protest.

"I'd take the money Toombs." It's a taunt, and, Riddick knows, a good bit of advice. Toombs won't want to be around to be caught up in the mess that Riddick is planning on happening. It reassures him, that he won't have to prod things along much to get the desired outcome, when the 'welcome' of clanging cups starts up.

Yet when the rope stops, several lengths off the ground, _again_ , even Riddick can't maintain his leverage without straining something. This injury is avoidable, if he gets himself loose now - and getting his arms and shoulders hurt _now_ _and here_ would be a weakness Riddick can not afford if he is to collect Jack and haul ass off Crematoria. Staying here longer then strictly necessary isn't something Riddick exactly _wants_ to do.

The locals aren't exactly friendly.

Riddick lands on his feet, even from that distance – and then the welcoming party starts in. Usually the weakest ones attack first, disparate not to be the last on the food chain – its good initiative to fight. There are three of them, Riddick only takes out two. A chain wraps around the neck of the third, flung backward, his neck breaking. No one was supposed to die. This, Riddick knows, changes things.

It's only then he gets a look at his rescuer, standing in one of the heat vents, smoke rising up from the ground beneath, obscuring. Riddick takes off his goggles, and recognizes her –almost as quickly as he gets a look, he can't help it when his eyes widen in surprise.

 _Jack_.

She isn't surprised to see him, looks almost as if she expected him to come here, sooner of later. Her narrowed eyes tell him it should have been sooner. Riddick can grasp what she's been through to get here, what she still likely endures to survive. Being a female convict is rare, surviving in this pit clearly isn't easy – even for men. The ease at which she killed so easily screams it.

In her eyes, it's too late – _Riddick_ came to save her too late. Riddick has only a moment to take that fact in.

Then the welcoming party gains a voice. When he looks again to Jack, she's gone.

It isn't hard to find her. Riddick looks, and curiously, it's where every other inmate and convict avoids. Clearly, she's gained something of a reputation here. Riddick is almost proud. Then there is the press of blades at his lower back, and he tenses to stillness. Not the Jack he left behind. That was abundantly clear.

"Should I go for the sweet spot?" Jack muses, Riddick resisted making a sound. Something, had, indeed changed between them. Jack had grown up – in more ways then one; she was a predator now, just as he was. Riddick knew better then to struggle, or to reason with her. So he stood, solid and vulnerable, and trusted that Jack would get whatever had festered between them off her chest, now, while they had the time to deal with it.

"Left of the spine, fourth lumbar down, the abdominal aorta. What a gusher." She was parroting old words at him, old hurts. Riddick wanted to turn and face her – only part of it was because, as it was, he was vulnerable. He also, at one time, had trusted her – had protected her. They were the last survivors of a planet whose predators came out in the night – an eclipse, which had happened to coincide with their arrival. Such ties were not lightly tossed away. Not even when she threatened

"How do I get eyes like that?" Mocking words, but she relaxed her grip, having made her point. She _could_ kill him, but she wasn't going to. Maybe she took those ties as seriously as he did, despite the threat she offered after all this time. Her actions – and her words made it plain, what trust there had been between them was something that had suffered from being frayed and weakened.

"You gotta kill a few people." Riddick tested the waters; his actions from this point on would be determined by how she reacted. There was always a chance she could be salvaged, and the bitter half-laughter that came gruffly from her lips only proved it.

"Did that. Did a lot of that." There was hurt there, vulnerability, and a willingness to work around what damage had been done. It wouldn't be as easy as all that, but it was something – _something_ , Riddick knew – was always better then nothing. It was high time Jack realized that she was not the only one hurt, not the only predator here in the bowels of Crematoria. Riddick may have been out of sight, but he hadn't gotten soft. Hard to be soft on a frozen planet the very blistering sunlight seemed not to seek.

"And then you gotta get sent to a slam." Riddick moved away, and Jack moved with him. Slowly, testing, they circled each other, moving together, checking weaknesses – noting the movement, vulnerabilities – and what new skills - they might have gained after nearly half a dozen years apart.

"One where they tell you you'll never see daylight again? Only there wasn't any doctor here who could shine my eyes, not even for twenty menthol Kools. Was there anything you said that was true?" Jack saw how he favored the leg Toombs had shot a spear tip into, trying to pin him down with a net. Riddick saw how Jack favored the arm she had wrapped a chain around; it wasn't a throwing arm – wasn't as strong as the other. Probably had limited mobility. Riddick didn't like measuring Jack up like this, too much of a killers know-how told him things Jack should know to tell him herself, yet it was necessary – and just because he didn't like it - didn't mean he was disturbed by it. It has its uses.

Riddick moved in, then, disregarding that Jack had been a child, that he had protected her. She was grown up, and if she couldn't handle herself in this confrontation, Riddick had more problems then getting Jack off Crematoria. Riddick held Jack, careful of her, even as she was pinned down against the steel bars; a cage. The same cage that had held her, trapped, on Crematoria, Riddick didn't know how long she had been trapped and caged.

"What are you gonna do, huh? Go for the sweet spot?" It was a cruel thing to do, this reminder of cages, Jack's eyes told him. It was a necessary thing, Jack _couldn't_ think they were less then equal – finding out who was the better killer could wait. This could not.

"Remember who you're talkin' to, Jack." If there was regret in his voice, neither of them would acknowledge it. Pressed together as they were, entwined like old lovers, arms pinned above her head, one armed, and his thigh forcing her off the ground so she couldn't get leverage (or use the pressure trigger on the nifty blades in her boot soles he wholly approved of) - Riddick was taking every instance he could to secure Jack, for if she struggled – he didn't want her hurt. Jack's whole attention should have been on him, she was a predator – she was trapped, made vulnerable by another – it wasn't, her attention was focused behind his back.

She still watched his back, no matter that she held a grudge against him. It relieved him, this show of instinctual protection. Jack had killed for him, protecting him. Riddick felt self-loathing at himself, a sick slimy thing that threatened to choke him. This was Jack; she was as good as the only family he had. And he treated her like this? He deserved her ire, in the very least.

Jack's eyes flickered – widened – it was Riddick's only warning. It came too late. Tangled up in Jack's limbs as he was, he could do nothing to save himself. He had made himself too vulnerable. It had been a stupid thing to risk, and now – now it might get him killed.

There was a sword tip, pressed snugly to the base of his spine.

"Let her go, Richard." Familiarity froze the choking slime of self-disgust. Riddick would know that familiar husky whisper anywhere. In all the time Riddick had known him, he had never spoken very loud. It was his mind that those words were screamed. Jack was not one to be idle while Riddick was so frozen, even though Riddick would have obeyed, instinctually, for he was already loosing his grip on his once charge.

It was Jack, in the end, who forced him to release her, striking out at him defensively – aiming for him to defend against her. Jack knew him well enough to know that attacking would get her no where. Without thinking, Riddick struggled to gain control again, but Jack dodged and weaved; going out onto the railing, daringly –tauntingly - standing just out of reach.

"Jack's dead. She was weak. She couldn't cut it. The name's Kyra now. And I'm a new animal." It was a blow that Riddick hadn't expected. Riddick let her go. And now, too late – or not – there was someone else to deal with; someone who he had thought dead. Riddick swallowed then, his mouth feeling far too dry to excuse to the hot humidity of Crematoria.

Riddick turned, slow and deliberately careful, to face the one man who he thought he had glimpsed, five years gone, on a ship whose captain had kept frozen relics of savagery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …okay, so my muses, yeah, they screwed up my perfect little notions of length, and "ending in five chapters" as per usual, really, you'd think I'd be used to this. I sort of am, this sucker just punched out thirty pages, yes, you read that right - in one day. I'm not even close to done yet, there is at least five pages worth of "filling in" and I am not posting that all at once, even if I could do it in a twenty-four hour period, I've got work this week - hectic as I get, it would not be fair to make you wait any longer then as long as it has been. Plus, you know, I want to know what you think about all this; but as apology for taking so long to make up my mind, and having this sit here at a cross point, I have decided to give you a double post.
> 
> I'll get to that sometime in the morning. It's 12AM, and I may have it on my desktop, but I'm tired and I've wrote more in the past two days then I have in weeks; "Big Brother Is Here" is a fragging near 14 page monster with near 7,000 words, and this hit directly afterward, I've gotten no rest 10,000 words later. I need one; so, please take this to heart, when you wish me to write more, please for love of higher beings, put limits on it.


	6. "Relics Of Savagery"

_Harry was not used to being taken by surprise. He was when Riddick sprinted into sight._

" _Damn-it, I've not got time for you…" Riddick did not know him. Did not yet recognize him, Harry was grateful and disappointed all at once. He eyed the sliced arm – the shirt. He had more then idea, he had a plan._

" _Take off your shirt. Use the cuts. It seeks your blood – there are men behind you, let them be hunted by what seeks you." Harry offered before Riddick could come near, or think to attack or defend against him. Harry kept his blade exposed all the same. He held it, relaxed, though at the ready. Riddick was all too aware of that, but he was as keen as he had always been following Harry's line of thought and words with action as he pulled the shirt from slick skin and let blood soak into it. Only then did he look up, having dropped the shirt, his blood scabbing over the self inflicted wound. Silver eyes caught light, though they stood in the dark._

" _Turn about is fair play, I guess. Thanks. Who the hell are you?" It was a demand, still bitter; it was one Harry managed to swallow the answer to. Men were coming and the creature would be close at their heels._

" _Climb." It was a demand, and as it meant survival, Riddick nodded as he followed it. Harry knew parts of the ship as easily as he knew swords, and knowing how to climb into the ceiling was something that he did to get away from watchful eyes. There was no cause to speak, for time had run askew._

_With a slight smirk, Riddick watched the mercs come into the room, searching it. Only one of them caught sight of the shirt before the creature came and they realized their trap. Then they were the prey, for while most stood and fought, the others ran. The creature did not yet go after them, scenting his blood and body heat_

" _Aim for the flesh beneath the frill." Riddick leaned forward, his skiv clutched in his hand, tilted just so. He had to time the purposeful fall just so. If he missed he could hurt himself badly – perhaps enough to be an invalid. Odds were good that this would be a one time chance. He took it._

_It was all too satisfying to feel the blue hued blood chill his skin, remembering the brittle crunch of the shiv going into the skull and brain of the beast._

" _Not your first kill." It was only when the man spoke that Riddick remembered he didn't know his name, though there was something about him that was all too familiar. Riddick knew he had to find it out. Before any reasonable person would have been able to respond, Riddick had flung himself at the dark haired man._

_Harry was ready for him, though when shiv clashed against sword, Riddick was surprised Harry had the strength he did. Riddick was built muscular, his bones dense, a sign of a heavy world born man. Harry was built slight, but had better upper body strength then Riddick would have given him credit for._

" _No, not my first kill – who the fuck are you?" Riddick sneered just a little, for though the others words had been bland they felt like an insult; he wondered, who on this merc ship wouldn't know how to kill?_

" _You knew me once." Riddick gained the advantage then, or Harry let him take it. It was how Riddick found himself straddling the slender man, pinned down between his thighs. Harry wasn't disappointed. He chuckled, for the first time the fringe of his black hair parted and the pale white lightning bolt scar stood in jagged relief. Riddick glared into the dark green eyes, for they were unchanging even with the illusion of humanity in the laughter. His silver eyes widened, flinching._

" _Harry…how?" It was a plea, and something like pity or kindness stirred in the green eyes. Silver eyes gleamed, shivering in the dark for the defensive move had turned into an embrace, and Riddick curled into and against Harry, lips brushing the sensitive skin of the others neck._

" _Richard …" Harry shook his head only a little, a faint sorrowful smile on his lips. Riddick was his weakness. Harry took in the sight of the bloodshed about them. The blood he laid in was not Riddick's but it could have been. He realized then that he was Riddick's weakness. Riddick could not have a weakness if he were to survive. Harry closed his eyes tightly, breathing in slowly, enjoying the lingering scent of rust and blood and the scent of Riddick and his musk and sweat. The heat of his body against his own, he would miss most of all._

" _I am sorry…" Harry murmured against Riddick's shoulder. He felt Riddick's hand clutch at his hair, it was painful and deliberate. It was to ensure Riddick knew he was real. He did not mind the reminder._

" _Don't be, what happened to you?" Riddick asked softly, Harry kissed his shoulder, his heart sinking and aching all at once as Riddick's bigger body slumped against him. Unconscious. He would waken when Harry was far enough away. As gently as Harry could afford, he rolled Riddick to his side. Pausing only to sit up and fetch his sword before standing slowly, affording himself one last lingering look to Riddick before he fled._

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Riddick hadn't known if Harry was alive after that. He'd blacked out, by a mere brush of lips against his skin. It would have been humiliating, if Riddick didn't know – didn't count on – something about Harry being more then human. If Riddick were honest; he didn't want to know if Harry hadn't survived – hadn't gone looking, for didn't want the danger of hope; and, ultimately, disappointment. The risk of being wrong, of another wound tearing into his essence, so much more vulnerable then his physical flesh was too much to change so carelessly.

That Harry was alive now, here, was obvious. Less so, was _why_ Harry had hidden from him all these years? Riddick wasn't stupid, if Harry had sought him out, Harry would have found him – self exile or no self exile to UV-6. Harry held his sword at ease, eyes narrowed and green digging into him, pinning him in place with a savagery Riddick didn't dare answer.

Clearly, they had gotten off on the wrong foot. Riddick was never one for subtleties.

"Why?" Half-growling the word didn't make it any less of a demand, any more friendly then it had to be. There was, this time, no where for Harry to run. Riddick was determined to get his answers, and this time he wouldn't be caught unguarded – Harry wouldn't touch him, and he wasn't so stupid as to risk looking into Harry's eyes. There had been a time Riddick had trusted Harry, ultimately, and would never have doubted him or mistrusted his actions. Everything back then had been black and white, clear cut, survival.

Now, now, Riddick _didn't know_ where they stood with each other. It disturbed him more then he wanted to admit. Where Harry had stood had always been certain, in the past, now it was like walking though mist on a mine field. It wasn't the most unsettling feeling Riddick had faced, but it was nothing short of eerie.

"It was necessary. To have done otherwise would have endangered you. Toombs was watching you, even then, would have hunted you before you could have gotten far, if I had not given him a closer target." Harry wasn't trying to meet his eyes. Wasn't trying to use his tricks to subdue or get away. He seemed to have realized, as Riddick had, that Harry _could_ avoid him, but facing him was a better choice on both accounts. Riddick would not stop dogging him for answers, now that he had Harry in his sights. There was no where Harry could go that Riddick would not follow.

"Toombs? _That_ coward, shiv him! We all could have gotten away!" Riddick knew he had interrupted, heedlessly, he continued recklessly, Harry's mouth half open though no words could be heard. His outrage was palpable, a tangible thing, and _maybe_ if Riddick was being reasonable and not acting like a betrayed brat, Harry would have said more; would have explained. Riddick didn't give him that chance, Harry stepped forward then, in Riddick's personal space – and though Riddick tried not to remember it later, there was still something about Harry that got to him – something that demanded he _listen_.

" _We_ would not have made it; I'd not have _you_ risk _your_ hide for mine. _You_ needed all the speed _you_ could gain; four people in that wrecked skiff would have slowed it down. I needed to stay behind, keep Toombs in my sights, _and_ to slow _them_ with the Kublai Khan." Warm breath, pleasant smelling like spice, breathed over his face, tickled his nose. Riddick, though he stood taller and was far bulkier then the slighter, shorter man at his side, felt as if he were being spoken down to. Riddick didn't like it much, even though he as good as deserved it.

"There was nothing out there chasing us!" Riddick had been _careful_ of just that, never forgetting that most of the time – after the danger was past – vulnerability lay in the vast emptiness between the light and the darkness; despite his nerves being raw because of the dark planet, Riddick had kept vigilant watch. Yet it had showed, his rawness, when the Kublai Khan had taken the skiff without much effort. Harry had to have guessed that; in all this time (for Riddick was no fool, and there had been familiarity between Jack and Harry) it was possible Harry already knew the planet-side monsters they had faced during that three-sun eclipse.

" _No_? Tell me Riddick, what is chasing you _now_?" Brittle sarcasm scraped against his skin. Riddick scowled, clenching fingers into his palms, but did not flinch.

" _Necromongers_." Harry finished abruptly, likely sensing Riddick was struggling with his temper and working through his memories, though Riddick half expected being told so bluntly, it still made him grit his teeth. It hissed, almost a purr, but far too menacing. There was old familiarity in the word for Harry; for all that – for Riddick – it had been a oddity. Dead worlds, ghost armies, half dead…it seemed too much like a vid-fantasy. Yet it wasn't, it was real- a threat, and Harry, Harry had known all along of _them_ since before Riddick; had kept Riddick in the dark.

That Harry _knew_ – had _known_ all along - raised even more questions, then the answers Riddick was finally getting.

"Harry, _you're good_ – damn good, but I've seen their Armada, you are not _that good_ , not alone. _You_ couldn't have slowed them down _that_ long. Why didn't we see them on our tails later? What would they want with the Kublai Khan? Or _you_?" Riddick _almost_ didn't say that last accusation, didn't want to know the answer. Because it meant acknowledging in all their history together, Harry had never told him about his home world for the reason that was glaring down at him, being slowly shoved down his throat by logic alone.

Didn't want to think that, all this time _alone_ (without Riddick) – Harry had been in danger, continually (Riddick had never even known, not even _suspected_ ) – and even though Harry knew as much as Riddick did that if something threatened _them_ (or, more often in the past –Riddick alone) , they had always _dealt_ with it together…it meant that Harry hadn't wanted Riddick _in the way_ as he was being hunted (or _hunting_?) by the damned Necromongers.

" _That_ is the question, isn't it?" Murmured words whispered against his ear, teasing now. While light hearted, Riddick knew this was an offering – a way to avoid a painful truth between the two of them; he didn't _want_ to dwell on it – the fact was that it was physically painful to realize that at one point he had been more of a liability to Harry then help. That for all his early street skill, it hadn't in the end, been enough. It wouldn't have made a difference.

"Don't play mind games with me, Harry." It came out rough, half choked, _and Harry flinched_. Riddick regretted the careless words, but they could not be unspoken. Harry stepped away, as if he did not quite know if Riddick was friend or foe, as if he hadn't again decided to trust Riddick just yet. Riddick just barely stopped himself from stepping forward, tightening his lips against a reckless plea, or an apology.

Harry had to _realize_ he was grown, that between them was years and hurt and abandon – and that Riddick had changed in that time, had survived, he could be trusted to take care of things, least of all his own hide, he was a killer – a predator. Harry had to realize that – had to see it. Things had changed, Riddick _could_ – and would, he vowed - _help_.

This time.

It would be different. Had to be.

Harry owed him that much. This chance to help, to change, to stand beside Harry and face was chasing the both of them now. If their years together, then the time apart – if it meant _anything_ to Harry, like what it meant to Riddick, then Harry _had_ to face what Riddick had become without him, had grown into. Riddick, without Harry, had survived, had killed – and would do so again. Things had changed between them. Riddick clung to that, hoping it was fact, and not mere ego.

Harry was looking at him –intently studying and measuring him - as if he was a stranger, and Riddick didn't know what he would say. If Riddick was truly ready for Harry to say anything at all, he wasn't sure. Harry spoke all the same.

"Then don't ask questions you know the answer to, Richard." Harry was gone then, slipped between the rock cracks which Riddick could not fit through. It hurt, that Harry would leave him so blatantly behind, for Riddick knew this new rule, if you lagged behind, you were left there. He may be willing to help Harry, but Harry – to protect him - would not linger if Riddick stumbled.

Harry would go on, a moving target alive enough to draw fire. Riddick would survive, but he wasn't sure he could live with himself, if such recklessness on Harry's part – and carelessness on his - resulted in Harry dying to protect him, even if he didn't want that protection so willingly offered.

What clung to Riddick, and remained with him in his memories afterward, was the desire to be Harry's equal, and the uncertainty in his fear, that lingered with him -was that he would never measure up to Harry, no matter how much killing he had done in the years apart to survive.

Then the alarm rung, and Riddick – frowning – watched inmates and convicts alike scattered for their cells.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Toombs didn't much like thinking of what monsters lucked in the darkness beneath the hull. Harry, his former captain, turned shipmate, who Toombs betrayed in part because of jealously – Harry showed more interest in a half-grown _girl,_ then he ever had to Toombs; deserved _worse_ then to be sealed up in the pit of Crematoria.

Toombs told himself it was just proper business, then, to tie up loose ends and see that the girl is properly taken care of, murderer that she was. Better to be a whore _here_ , where she couldn't get to drugs. It was mercy, then, Toombs had assured the crew at the time. Didn't they, after all, need the money?

Then, of course, there was Riddick, with his silver shinned eyes, with more cock and nerve then Toombs liked to see in any man. Had to have him shown his proper place, in the end, that was all there was to it. Toombs was, above all else, looking out for himself. He didn't mind being one step ahead of some, didn't mind using underhanded means to take care of things that _needed_ taking care of.

But, it didn't sit right with him, when – promptly after being shown a ship that might, or might not – have been shadowing them all the way from Helion Prime to Crematoria – the Necromongers are found to have damned good timing; the comm link crackles to life.

" _Crematoria, this is Necromonger Commander Vaako, our scans have detected the presence of an individual of selectively high interest to the Legion Vast, in reflection of this revelation, we have forsaken stealth for the purpose of dealing with you. Your lives, for the fair trade of a man in your keeping; his traits are green eyes, and a scar, a symbol of a lightning bolt across his brow_." Everyone holds his or her breath, belatedly, standing around like frozen statues, as if the vacuum of space had descended upon them and its cold fingers had snatched the life from their limbs.

Toombs makes a stanch for the radio, but the warden, damn him, is quicker.

"Vaako, this is the warden of Crematoria, I'll see to it your prize is safely traded over for the aforementioned agreement." It is a breathless wait, while they wait for the response. It could have been all they wanted was a reassurance that the planet, however desolate, was occupied. Or that they wanted certain assurances to their arrival was worth the effort; it wouldn't slow them down if they chose to move defensively to take over Crematoria, but not even Necro's seemed willing to linger upon Crematoria.

Toombs grit his teeth, glaring down his nose at the rat faced warden, whose lips were smugly turned. It was his eyes that showed the frantic fear, that he might have misjudged his choice of replying to the attempt of contact. But this was a trade, as good as currency, and few would be fool enough to go back on their word in these parts. Even if this 'Vaako' _did_ mean it – didn't mean that they wouldn't be back later to pick them off, one by one.

" _Acknowledged, we will promptly be making a surface landing. Stand by_." It was an abrupt communication, almost an afterthought. Necro's were not used to informing others of their comings and goings – it was something to remember, and to be taken advantage of if it could be.

Meanwhile, Toombs had a bone to pick with a warden.

"What do you mean by doing that?" Toombs snarled the words out, flinging them like glass shards. If he had expected the warden to flinch, he found himself sourly disappointed. Toombs curled his lip in a snarl. So what if it wasn't Riddick that the Necro's were after? Toombs and his merc crew were still down here, trapped in the rabbit hole while the fox waited up top. It gave them a certain intuitive to see that they lived beyond getting off world.

"Attempt to remember, you will, Crematoria is a prison - not a defense outpost. What weapons we have are for mobs, or one-on-one discipline. If we called for help, it would be a long time in coming. This world is an isolated hell. Better, by far, to take our lives and leave here, if that choice is offered." It was hissed, and the tension was thick enough to be wary of. This was the sort of atmosphere people died in. It would be a pity, as soon as someone drew blood, or a weapon was drawn and readied - it didn't matter who had done it – or the reasons would amount to the same. A bloodbath.

"That so?" Toombs murmured, so soft someone would have to strain to hear him on purpose. It was an indirect threat. They had to know that if things went sour, it was a merc ship in their bay. It would be the only way off world for any of them, if the Necro's weren't as honest to their word as some might hope they'd be.

"Yes." It was growled, and the guards under the warden stirred uneasily, stepping closer, huddling up together as if knowing they might be getting in a fight sooner rather then late – in response, as Toombs well knew any decent merc crew would, his people were narrowed eyed, fingers itching for weapons. It was too late to call them back, or settle some sort of peace between them. Only blood would solve this mess. Only more blood would wash away the mistakes the warden had made, and for damn if it wasn't going to be a bloody mess in more ways then one.

"Can't help rememberin', they said nothing about sparing _merc_ lives…" In the end, it was one of his three remaining crew that said it; his name didn't matter a minute later; his words were as good as a weapon being hurled. He'd died first, but Toombs was damned if he was the last merc to die. For a while it was a blessed confusion of flickering lights (done on purpose by the guards, likely) and short bursts of fire taken from the cover of upturned tables and behind doorways.

By the end of it, Toombs was bleeding out of his gut, he'd die slow – and the warden stood over him gloating, he'd be the type to watch a man die - rather then put him out of his misery, Toombs knew. It was the sort of ruthlessness mercs sometimes forgot the guards held; if it took hard work to capture a convict, it was ruthless work _keeping_ him caught.

"Send out the 'hounds. Let's collect our green eyed man." Toombs spit up his blood on those expensive boots, still tasting it as he swallowed, and silently giving Riddick his blessing in giving this asshole hell. A sharp kick to his side was all it took for him to black out.

Toombs would never know that it was a rope about his neck, his body the anchor to gravity, that Riddick would need to do just that.


	7. "Stolen By Those Disturbed"

Kyra knew something wasn't right when they sent out the hellhounds, the rough spiked skinned cat-like creatures were only sent out once – usually early morning, or later night, to collect what the inmates had dug up. At first, Kyra wasn't too worried, she'd hid her stash when Riddick had been dropped into the pit – and checked it, after she left Harry to deal with Riddick. She had been too unsettled to go back down to where the good stuff was.

There wasn't much she could do, though, just get out of the way and find a cage. It was with a sick irony that she realized that the guards probably made jokes about it. In the aftermath of the hellhounds, no one bothered with getting out until the guards had finished their inmate checks (they went to the ones who gave up the stuff they dug up first) and head counts, just to check the books against who'd died and who'd made it though to the next night.

When the hellhounds came out, leashed and tied by guards (who usually avoided the brutes as much as any inmate would), her heart rate quickened in her own ears.

This was wrong.

Something was wrong, the guards had been stirred up – and there would be hell to pay, if anyone got in their way. Immediately, Kyra's thoughts went to Harry, and reluctantly – Riddick. With a grim almost-smile, Kyra went in search of Harry – he was never hard to find, but Riddick might be trickier, and Kyra wanted Harry at her back while they looked.

All it took was Kyra looking a little worried at the prospect of having to find Harry, for Harry to – predictably – show up. Sometimes she wondered if he did it on purpose; if he didn't, it was a damn good trick – if he did, he was lucky no one he trusted would take advantage of finding him when looking.

"Harry, something's amiss – where'd you leave Riddick?" If her lips were almost a smile, Harry didn't dwell on it. Knowing it was serious, despite her obvious amusement at her own words, he turned toward a railing to cross over the ledge - and would have crossed - if it hadn't been for the two guards, with a inmate tucked behind them – peering up at Harry with a expression Kyra didn't like in the least.

"There you are, see? Green eyes." There was something greedy about the man, it seeped though to his oily voice. Kyra would have stepped back, repulsed, but Harry only stood there solid and solemn, it did more to reassure her then the quick he gave her, over his own shoulder.

"Nicely fetched, Fish, now let's see 'bout that scar." Rumbled the bigger dark guard, who looked to be bleeding out the arm, a burn across his cheek and chin. An old vid of animated lions made her itch to call him Scar. A vicious sort of smile, as if he read her thoughts and would make her pay for it, crossed his features. He stepped boldly up to Harry, and in a move that was part daring – but mostly stupid- he reached upward to caress the skin Harry's bangs messily hid.

Kyra held her breath, but all that happened was that she got a glimpse of a healed scar – oddly shaped – the healed skin silvery and pale. She wondered what it felt like, even as the big mans thumb rubbed at it curiously. Harry jerked in surprise, but it was his only visible reaction to the unasked for touch.

"Ah, nicely done, it's just where they'd said it'd be, too." His voice reminded her of the purr of a ship engine, and she hated him a little for it. It reminded her, keenly, of her longing to be free.

"You have me at a disadvantage." Harry spoke lower, softer, then usual. It got their attention, none the less. The smaller of the guards, who wouldn't stop flinching and whose eyes darted about nervously – who Kyra thought unmercifully as 'Twitches', seemed to gain a voice, hearing that Harry's was softer then his own was like to be. To this sort of man, softly spoken likely meant weakness, or fear; Kyra wished she'd be the one to see the day he was put to rights.

"Nothing personal, mate, better you then us – see?" It wasn't quite a stammering sentence, but it was close, broken up as it was with uncertainty. 'Scar' put a too familiar hand on Harry's shoulder, clasping it glidingly. It was then that Kyra snapped – _no one_ was going to touch _her_ mentor. Harry might not resist them for fear of drawing their attention onto Kyra, but she sure as hell wasn't going to stand idly while that took liberties with Harry they would never, in their short lives, earn.

"Don't you touch him!" It was snarled, defensive and vicious, and when Harry looked to her, something like surprise flashed though his steady gaze. That he was so calm stopped her from hurtling her self into the fray, but it was a near thing. There was understanding for her sake, there. It made her sick that even when he was about to be hauled off for parts unknown, Harry would still keep her safe, or try to.

"Kyra." It was calming, almost soothing in its placating. Kyra knew it for what it was, her shoulders hunched, tensing – it was a warning. Harry had taken her word for something going on to heart – and evidently he was several steps ahead of her on what was happening. She wasn't to interfere. This was bad then, worse, maybe – then she had first thought.

"Own him, do you girly? Not for long, boss is goin' ta hand him over to the Necromongers for the asking. Nothing to be done about it." Scar sneered down at her, hand clenching hard onto Harry's shoulder. He didn't flinch, or cringe, or make a sound of protest. Scar was the kind to take it for acceptance of his status above Harry. Kyra knew better, Harry wouldn't waste a word on their worthless hides. It made her bristle all the same, what they thought – were thinking – when it concerned Harry. He was all he had. For him, she could be calm and see this rationally. She _had to_. Harry was counting on her, for that much, at least. She would not let him down.

"Come along, green eyes – if you don't, we'll see that scar head here sees you dead 'fore the Necro's get a hand on him." Scar murmured into the shell of Harry's ear. If they'd seen the look in his eyes, they would have known he was up to something – and that this was a waiting game to him; that they had no control over him. It was all in illusion. That, more then anything, reassured her. Still, she had to be sure. Even if she did like to think that, even in the midst of something like this - Harry knew what he was doing.

"Harry?" Do you want me to follow? Her eyes said it, begged to of him, but Harry turned away as if she didn't matter. A moment later, she knew why; Scar was eyeing her. She hadn't noticed. She flushed, not at the guard's attention or looks, as he probably thought – and if he did, he was delusional, she was the only female felon in the pit, if she wanted a man, there were plenty down here prettier and darker and more rugged, certainly with more scars, then he. Men like him were idiots, though; Kyra would sooner teach him a bloody lesson in manners then bed the likes of him.

It couldn't be helped that she had been so caught off guard, not realizing someone was watching her so intently – Harry had. It told her something about his control, that it was better then hers, she had always taken for granted. The one time he had warned her about a trap, they had fallen into it for lack of her having listened to him. So she listened now, listened well – watching his body language. Even so, she was hard pressed to read him. Usually she admired that, now it was more hindrance to her then help.

"I'll go, don't touch her – don't mean anything to me, if you did." Scar was still looking at her, then to Harry. She knew Harry was only saying as much because, as it drew their interest to find her so defensive of him – it repelled it to see his disinterest in her. Probably wondering what went on between them, if she was so revolting to his tastes –and why. She felt a well of sickened disgust rise up her throat. Harry was her protector, her mentor – but never, never her lover. It was sick; _wrong_. Twisted in her gut like a live eel squirming.

They started walking away, Harry between them – Fish, the inmate ferret lingering behind. Kyra still didn't know what to do; what Harry wanted her to do – follow? Or trust him to take care of himself. He was more then capable of getting away between now and when they handed him to the Necro's; maybe he'd get topside and come back for her and Riddick. She wouldn't know, either way, without Harry giving her some clue.

Finally it seemed Harry might slip away without giving that critical clue that she might, after all, be left alone to her own devices and odds without collaborating with Harry beforehand. Those chances of everything turning out OK were out the window, fluttering on the clothes line in the middle of a storm. It terrified her into speaking, her distress thick in her voice.

"…Harry!" They – the guards - snickered, hearing her and thinking she meant the call to be something one lover to a scorned one, but the important thing – the critical thing – was Harry turned, looking back at her, frowning over his shoulder as if he wondered why she'd called him. Then he seemed to see her genuine distress, and understood, without even taking the time to blink.

"Ought to get your eyes shinned." Kyra could have laughed with relief; instead she let the frustrated tears spill over, looking for the entire 'verse as a lover cast aside. She played the part perfectly, taking the blow to her pride – that she was _that weak_ – easily, it wasn't until they were out of sight that she moved; quicker then any lovelorn desolate would have managed. This was serious, Harry knew the danger – she was to fetch Riddick, and then, only then, was she to come after Harry, her fury lending her the strength she would be in dire need of by the end of this.

"Riddick, please, Riddick, help me, you have to help me, right now - we have to get him back – you have to help me get him back!" Out of breath, and her mind rushing with thoughts and plans, tugging on Riddick to get him to move (couldn't he see she wanted him to follow?) Kyra allowed a little of her hysteria to bleed off (for the tears had not been wholly fake, after all, merely badly misinterpreted) when Riddick frowned down at her, baffled, even as his eyes took keen interest of her tears.

"W-what?" His expression was swiftly becoming ragingly thunderous, a frightening thing to be so near – reminding Kyra of the fury Harry had so rarely shown.

"They took him, Riddick, _they took him_!" Kyra took a stuttering breath, trying to keep her mind clear and focused – she couldn't fail Harry simply because she had fallen into hysterics imagining what _might_ happen to him. She had to focus on what was happening – that, she knew, was dire enough.

"Slow down, J – ah – Kyra, _took who_?" Even more confused then he had ever shown himself to be, now that he grasped her tears were not on her own behalf. Kyra grit her teeth and took a breath – why was Riddick being so slow? Didn't he realize time was the most important thing?

"Harry! I..I was _right there_ , Riddick, but it didn't matter to _them_ , and they just…just _took_ him!" Kyra had realized that Riddick wasn't being slow; she had – in her haste – never told him it was Harry that was in danger. It would have been obvious to anyone else in the pit; Harry always made himself known when Kyra might be the slightest bit upset. Riddick didn't know, couldn't know, because he'd only, after all, been here less then a day.

"Calm down, Kyra, it's alright, Harry can take care of himself – he'll come back to us." He said it, grinning a little in amusement, as if she were still the child she'd been five years ago. As if Riddick thought that nothing had changed between them in all that time, that she would still be scared of people taken away by the dark; or that she didn't realize when people who ordinarily didn't need any help, did.

That, more then anything, made Kyra want to throttle him, instead – while she gathered blades from their tucked away corners and made a dash for her hidden treasure under Riddick's bemused gaze, she spoke brutally and lashing to the bone of the point she had to make – now – before Riddick thought he'd been convinced to do something by his own cleverness rather then any word of hers.

"No, Riddick, you don't _get it_ – we have to go and fetch him back, they, they told him that the Necro's were after him, are here, or coming here, and if he didn't go with them, the guards would make sure to kill me - first one to die, that's what he said. And, and Harry, he just went! I've never seen him look so distant." It ached to have seen him withdrawing from reality, fortifying for the worst, even as she watched him walk such a short distance away.

"We'll get him back, Kyra, you hear me? We're going to get him back." Riddick had moved to intercept her jerky movements; he was as serious and ready to face danger as she could have hoped for. His large hands held her shoulders, reassuring and there, when she needed him most – _he was here_ – not half a 'verse away. _Here_. She didn't think he'd ever know how much that alone meant to her. Let alone the words.

It was then that Riddick saw Toombs corpse hanging from the guard's topside quarters. They glanced between each other, Riddick was grinning rather viciously, and though Kyra grimaced in disgust, she nodded firmly in acknowledgment of what they were about to do – however distasteful.


	8. "Light Is Blight"

"How do you recon' these Necro's scans _knew_ to look for the likes of you, with you down in the belly of Crematoria, _huh_ , green-eyed man?" It made Anatoli's skin crawl, not the question that Dev' was asking, not even his long scar - a livid, twisted thing that marred an otherwise nice enough looking face. No, it was the look the green-eyed man was giving them.

Anatoli knew there was only so much a person could take - before something in them broke, and couldn't be fixed. Sometimes it happened in war, with men huddling in the dark, half-awake even in the dead of night, all the while half hoping the shells don't hit, or half wishing they do.

Men like those would put the world at a distance. As long as they go on breathing, and living, and bleeding. An arms length away someone could be ripped to shreds by shrapnel - or be dying in their arms, and that person _will see it_ , but it won't matter. Not like it should. It'd be too much for them, to care. So they don't, knowing it to be safer that way.

Anatoli always knew that type, the vacant wide-ranged eyes, reading into the dangers around them, before – maybe - focusing on you. No emotion in eyes like those, only survival. Sometimes, they don't even know why they are surviving, and living, while the others around them seem to just _die_. It wasn't that sort of look.

"He ain't gonna answer you, Slick. My guess is, they gave him the scar. Something in it, about it, that'd let them know." Anatoli jerked his eyes from the… _prisoner_ , looking to the rail ahead, rather then letting him self fall into the trap in those green-eyes. Who ever this man was, who'd been living and breathing beneath their feet, for years, they hadn't known what lurked in him. Any ordinary man would be nervous, afraid in the very least, terrified at the very worst, but not the green-eyed man.

There was _eagerness_ in his step, he wasn't hindering them, and he was practically goading them into a quicker step with his own haste. He didn't lag, or struggle, or so much as say a word. That, too, was what was getting to Dev'. Green-eyes, he _wanted_ to see the Necromongers, as if the world killers, the converters to death, were close friends of his. As if he'd left something unfinished with them, and this – well, this was as good a time as any as to _finish_ it. Wasn't it?

Anatoli knew that, come what may, this was the sort of man who dealt his debts as blood, and there was a payment to be owed. To who – and when, or where, Anatoli could not judge, he only hoped to be well away when it happened – for, when it did…it would be a slaughter. He did not even know who the victor might hope to be, despite numbers and the odds clearly stacked against a single man. He didn't think it mattered, least of all to the green-eyed man.

"Would you two shut up? You're paranoid enough for the rest of us, already." It was half growled, and the two shut up –stopped edging on green-eyes, who already eyed them with disdain, blood lust lurking under a surface of calm placidity. Every line of green-eyes body shrieked 'predator' – and if this man decided they were prey? They were better off dead.

Anatoli inhaled, dragging a lungful of air – and paused beneath a hole. The only one who gave his pause a look, was the green-eyed predator standing in their midst. Anatoli nearly choked on the realization, they were _being followed –_ from above – and green-eyes had _known it_.

"Boss! Up there." Anatoli glared defiantly into furious green-eyes. If the others would have thought he was suicidal for meeting those eyes, for _challenging_ this man, well Anatoli did not want to be wrong.

"Take a look." Anatoli saw the man clench his teeth, and knew that if green-eyes could, he'd kill Anatoli for this. Anatoli wouldn't give him that chance; not if it could be helped.

"Because Anatoli says so?" Dev' asks with a wicked sneer, scar going crooked, and Anatoli holds his breath, something in his chest tightening painfully.

"Because his nose says so." Anatoli thinks he can start to breathe easy, maybe. He watches, silently urging Dev' climb up the latter faster to reach the hole. Green-eyes are watching too, and their eyes meet once more before Dev' speaks up. Anatoli can only hope he's instincts are right, that there isn't any doubts to what Dev' will see.

"There's nothin' up here." Dev' grumbles, after talking a half hearted look, Anatoli looks to the green-eyed man, expecting him to be smirking at his fellows not getting caught – he isn't. Anatoli notices then that despite his half-hearted protest of not seeing anything, Dev' is taking the looking seriously. He frowns through the white ash and the small crawlspace that only opens up for swapping air – except for now.

"Oh, shit. Riddick. They're heading right for the volcano fields. They're going for our ship!" Dev' is pissed; scampering down the ladder faster then is safe – no one protests, because now they are scared. Anatoli feels his heart thud in his chest, and wishes he might have been wrong.

"No chance do they get to the hangar first. No chance!" Slick protests, face pale in his fear. He holds his gun with steady hands, even as the rest of him shakes. Anatoli sees green-eyes, a hand clenched around the railing, knuckles white – and is glad he isn't wrong, because it means _living_ – or, at least - having a chance they otherwise wouldn't. Anything that got green-eyes this riled is most assuredly bad for them.

"Next one! Next hole! We'll catch 'em there!" Anatoli knows he should remember things better as he's doing them, running, the metal boots pounding hard on the walk – the railing slick under his grip. It's a blur, it doesn't matter even when he knows, _knows_ that a fall or drop will kill or hurt him worse for the rush. All that matters is getting to the next hole –slowing down the runners above ground. Somehow, they do it – they make it, and Slick is climbing up the ladder, because he's the better shot – and the hole is pried open like an ancient tomb. And all they can do now is waiting, wait for the runners.

Slick is quiet for a long time, and Anatoli starts to worry that they missed them – or that the runners took a chance with a different run. The _one advantage_ they have is that the runners don't know the planet, and if they don't want to get lost, they have to follow the holes to the shuttle bay.

"No more run for you." Slick hisses, and all they can do is brace themselves for the shot, and hope it hits – and hope the damned prisoners got some loyalties. Or that this scatters them, and they think, maybe, that they're being hunted now – that the guards have time to play the old game of predator and prey.

"Where did the big guy go?" Slick mutters to himself, under his breath, talking himself through the shot like he usually does. Then rapid fire hits the hole; Slick screeches – if in pain, or surprise, or maybe both, Anatoli can't say.

Dev' doesn't freeze up, doesn't hesitate, shutting the hole quick so no more fire can get it. Anatoli hears her then, a savage cry; a predator denied its fair right at a trade – she's hunting them, hunting them because they have something she wants, needs. Green-eyes looks up, wide eyed, it's the first time Anatoli has seen him surprised.

Slick falls, and something in him bounces and breaks. He's quiet, and it's wrong, because Slick is never quiet, he's always chattered and mocked and muttered, and now he's not. He's dead. Dev' checks his pulse, even though Dev' hasn't ever been a trained to be anything like a medic, but he tries – because Slick was his friend. Dev' glares up at green-eyes, standing there, looking like he's worried about something _now_ , finally, when he should have been worried a long time ago.

Anatoli tells himself it doesn't matter, but it does. They move, quicker now, because one of them died, and runner's top-side are after _them_ , not the ship – and they won't slow down until they have what they want.

Now the ship and the hanger might be their only escape, to make a trade for their lives - to get off world, to get away from what they locked away in a pit and forgot was dangerous. Anatoli thinks that it takes too long to get to the hanger, but they get there – and open the doors, reckless like - frantic.

And there they are.

Anatoli can't count them, because there are too many alike each other. They look difference, but its like that difference is only skin deep and something about them is similar, as if they all have one unifying factor that the likes of Anatoli can't see. Maybe it isn't that at all, though, maybe these Necromonger ghosts, with their converting or dying fanaticism, just have him spooked.

Still, there is something about them. All dressed up in unifying armor like soldiers out of some ancient fable, in black-metallic armor with nasty-sharp edges, something artistic in it, too. Even in the helms and visors. Only one of them has the decency to meet them face to face, and it's a face that Anatoli doesn't think anyone one would forget the seeing of.

High cheeks, pointed chin, like the aristocrats of old; pale skin, for all he has black hair and brown eyes. Those eyes look them over, and find something lacking in them. Anatoli doesn't like it, this judgment – it feels too final for just a trade-over. Then brown eyes meet green, and Anatoli has never seen anything like it. There is hate there, old loathing that seems like it would burn you inside out, and it's too bright, too hot to keep bottled up.

"Vaako…" If anyone – least of all green-eyes himself- ever said Anatoli's name like that, he'd run, to somewhere no one could ever spoke his name. Vaako, the Necromonger Commander Vaako, he just smiles as if he loves the way his name is growled – hated. Like he thinks it's cute.

"Zhylaw wants very much to talk to you. He'll be well pleased that I've retrieved you." Vaako stated, matter-of-factly - with a quick gesture, no less then four of his men stepped forward; it was instinctual reaction for the guards and warden to back off. Green-eyes didn't move - didn't resist, as they led him away.

"What of our deal?" It was quickly said, a fleeting reminder – because now, they'd fulfilled there end of it, and Vaako had his prisoner, now they had to get off Crematoria before something unpleasant caught up with them. Let the Necromongers deal with them, if they were found out.

"All rewards are justly gotten, and all endings are richly deserved." Vaako murmured almost too soft to hear, his back turned to them – this time there was no gesture, no hint. Yet there was no mercy on hidden Necromongers faces as they betrayed the warden – and his guards. Anatoli felt keenly the pain in his gut, his blood on his hands as it seeped out of his body – the floor was warm under his cold skin.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"Let me guess. Necros." At the man's words, Kyra peered over the edge of the melted rock; it outcropped around the hanger, reminding her of overgrown hedges. Sweat slicked her skin, grimy with ash, and she longed for a shower. Her hair clung together in stringy lumps, and her thighs and stomach were warm with the workout. Despite what her mind and eyes were seeing, some part of her wanted to keep going, keep running, just to see if she could outrace the sun that had nearly killed her once already. It wasn't a pleasant way to go.

"And a whole lotta Necro firepower." Riddick rumbled from behind her, quietly amused in his own way. They were after him, and using a whole ship to do it. It was a far cry from what Toombs had tailed him with. Probably, it flattered him. She found comfort in that. Riddick hadn't been worried about her keeping up; it was the two holdups that'd only fallowed them as a chance at getting off world with them. If anyone, as she'd told them, could get off them off this hell – Riddick could. Kyra wouldn't miss them, if something happened to them by "accident". Riddick, if anyone, knew that much. They weren't important. Harry was.

"Shit! I hate not being the bad guys." Kyra was smirking at Riddick, but it was the lackeys who chuckled nervously at her words. Riddick gave her a small smile, as if he most of all appreciated her effort at being normal. Kyra knew she was being reckless, almost suicidal when presented the opportunity to shove some firepower down the nearest guards throat – but this, all this – it was her fault.

Harry would have fought, would have gotten away, and would have done something if he hadn't had the threat of _something_ happening to Kyra if he didn't go along with whatever. It had been obvious that the warden and his guards had decided to vacate Crematoria, with tail tucked firmly tucked up their asses, and running underground like rats. Kyra wasn't worried about that part, that was the natural coward's way out; but why take Harry with them. Why bother with him, with Necromongers likely to rain down on them?

"Harry." Kyra felt her heart falter at Riddick's pronouncement. She had to see for herself, and wished she didn't. Harry looked malnourished and sickly, a falling a head short of any of the Necromongers who were leading him out into the open, looking expectantly toward the sky as a ship engine rumbled the ground, humming filled her ears – yet she still couldn't look away from Harry.

"What? O-oh, shit, shit they have him – what the hell we going to do, Riddick?" Kyra asked breathlessly of her mentor, watching as the Necromongers herded Harry onboard. He looked back once, and seemed to be looking toward them – then away, as if it didn't matter. That broke Kyra a little bit, to think that Harry would know them to be so nearby - and wouldn't want them to step in for his own skin.

"Get him back." Riddick stated, as if there was nothing else to be done about it. Kyra was never so convinced that Riddick had the right of it, that Riddick was savage and brutal and protected, because that was how he was meant to be. How they were meant to be, humanity as a whole – somewhere along the way, though, they'd failed, splintered, and weren't whole, like Riddick. Didn't know how to be – but Riddick did, and so did Harry – and Kyra, Kyra was learning what it meant.

"Hey, _no way_ , you hear me? I'm sorry about your friend – _okay_ – but I'm not risking my neck for no-one." Kyra curled her lip in a sneer at the man, would have told him he was no better then a cowardly guard, hiding behind the teeth of a hellhound. Riddick beat her to speaking, and it was for the better that he did. One would hardly believe that out of the two of them, it was Riddick that was more reasoning. He'd get someone to do what he wanted, for his reasons, and they'd do it, thinking it was their idea all along.

"We have a limited amount of time before our window for getting off-world closes. Think they'll be so polite as to leave before that chance is damn near gone?" Riddick asked mockingly, and the man looked to his darker friend, seeking reassurance and getting none. The other shook his head, as if disappointed to find that his friend was no better then a cowardly snitch. In the pit, such men like that – like Fish, who'd ratted out Harry – would get their throats slit.

"You can't be sure." The other man insisted, stubborn, but Riddick only jabbed a finger at the Necromongers – then a thumb at himself.

"I am, they didn't come all this way just for Harry – they came for me, I screwed with them on Helion Prime, before Toombs, think they'd just forget about that? No, Harry is something they weren't expecting to find, but more then willing to ensure they collected." Kyra looked to Riddick then, and saw that he meant what he said. From the beginning of meeting Harry, Kyra had had her suspicions of him – and it seemed that Riddick didn't know as much as he would have liked to, either.

"Why? Why is your _friend_ so _important_?" This time it was the darker man who asked, and he put a certain empathizes on "friend" that Kyra knew Riddick wouldn't like to hear.

"Doesn't matter, we get him back – or we don't get to live to see another sunrise." Kyra stepped in then, before Riddick could undo all the hard work he'd built up, in favor of becoming defensive about Harry and whatever sick things the slackers had thought up about the three of them. It'd only edge them on, hearing Riddick threaten them when they already suspected. Let them have their sick thoughts, they were warm bodies all the same.

"We're in." Maybe it was her saying it, setting priorities down - but the two looked between each other again, and the man with Irish red hair nodded firmly in agreement with her.

"Riddick, shit, Riddick I think they sniffed us out." It was the darker man who'd spoke, and his words had them all tense and nervous.

"Move, get that ass moving Kyra – we got our one second chance!" Riddick put a warm hand on her shoulder, and then he was moving forward, not pausing to look back once – no regrets. Kyra couldn't help the curl of her lips, as ruthlessness welled up in her blood; she was just as vicious – just as much a predator as Riddick. They moved like a team, matching each other moves and making the hits and cuts all that much more efficient in brutality – they were up against armored men, bad guys with all the weapons - there could be no mistakes.

That was, of course, when there was one. A bolt of energy hit Riddick wrong, he couldn't have avoided it, and so he went with it, slamming harshly into anything that got in his way. Kyra couldn't breathe; she fought to get to Riddick's side, chanting – begging with him – under her breath.

"Get up. Get up! Please get up." Kyra urged, still unable to get to his side. She saw him stirring, too slow, slow enough that the Necromongers were going to surround him before she got there. Strangely, they didn't seem to care, two held her back from Riddick – keeping her in their little circle surrounding him. Kyra wanted badly to be on the other side of this – to stand by Riddick, as was right.

"So, you can kneel." Kyra grit her teeth against telling him to _shut up_. Riddick was looking at them, but not seeing them – Kyra saw the distance in his eyes. He had to know that Kyra was nearby, because he was mumbling words that weren't meant to be heard. Kyra didn't have to hear to understand, because she could lip read – and Riddick knew it. Riddick was telling her something, something of what he could see – and what she couldn't.

 _"I think you know now. I think you know who tore Furya apart. This mark carries the anger of an entire race. But it's going to hurt_." Kyra didn't understand it, but she understood that Riddick lipped these words for a reason – there was never not a reason. Kyra braced herself, not knowing what she was bracing for – but knowing, knowing and feeling that _something was coming_. It was going to happen. Kyra only wished she knew what.

It turned out to be a good idea, bracing for an impact, because a wave of force – of power made up of something she could see out of the corner of her eye as blue and white; it her, _hit them_. It was like crashing a ship, hitting dirt and not stopping, not in control. It hurt, to be thrown back from Riddick by something she couldn't see properly. She heard though, heard Riddick cry out as if, as much as _she hurt_ – he was hurting more. Kyra thought of the words she'd seen him lip, and hoped Riddick would be okay – that whatever this was, it wasn't something that he couldn't bounce back from. Riddick was the most endurable person she'd ever stood beside, if he couldn't figure out what was going on in his own head, with his body – well, they all we're _fucked_ , weren't they?

It hurt to open her eyes, Kyra realized, because silver dots and blue streaks dazzled them. Even with it, Kyra heard the hum of a returning ship, heard it blaring an alert, sounding like a alarm clock that hadn't been charged yet was on at full blast. Kyra lurched to her feet, because anything that made that sort of noise couldn't mean good news. It was then she saw Riddick, prone in the take-off strip, not moving, not breathing. Kyra blinked back her tears – she couldn't, _wouldn't_ think the last word- what if meant when someone was that still.

Kyra choked, and she didn't know if it was on dirt and grit – or on tears, forcing their way out another path. Riddick deserved better then to be left laying out here, alone. Kyra looked to the rising sun, and remembered the wall of burning air, her terror as flaming claws and teeth seemed to be coming at her, aiming to shred her to embers. There wouldn't be a body, soon enough.

Kyra stumbled toward the ship – the ship that had Harry, that could have every single damn Necromonger in the 'verse and she wouldn't care. Kyra wouldn't let Riddick have died, for nothing. She'd stand by Harry, at his side, and together they'd mourn Riddick. For now – Harry was counting on her; she _had_ to stick by his side.

They were all they had, now.


	9. "When Elemental Sway Is At Play"

"You should have stayed with Riddick." Are the first words she hears, the first words that Harry speaks to her pass from his lips like stones sinking into a lake. They are cold, but that is the way Harry is, alien in his own way. She knows he cares, that he would rather send her way so she would not be in danger, even if he rates the danger worthy of her being kept on a hell world rather then at his side. It's bad, she knows, but she doesn't agree that it's quite _that bad,_ yet. And, _she knows_ , as she keeps the memory tucked away in the back of her mind lest she flinch and cringe and winch away her sanity, bit by bit.

She can say nothing, can't begin to describe what she feels, as she wants to say what she can not admit; but _Riddick is dead_. It's too much to admit, too soon. Yet she wants to say it, so badly she can taste the words, wants to cry and scream them so Harry will only hear and _fix it_ , but it's how they'd feel once spoken (because they could never be taken back, after) is what she dreads, why she says nothing at all.

Kyra nods curtly, because she expected as much. Once she heard a sang about being a 'third wheel' among friends who wanted more, this is like that, what's between – what was between – Riddick, Harry, and Kyra. Only, with them, it worked. Now it doesn't, with Riddick died some part of what they had, or so it feels. Harry doesn't even know or suspect, yet, or maybe he does and _that's_ why he's cold with her.

Still, they are not alone, with enemies all around them even as the Necro's move and avoid looking at them, as if they do not exist and are not sitting here among them. They carefully look around them, avoiding the sight. She realizes, slowly, that it is not them that they are avoiding looking to, but Harry alone who they avoid the sight of, he who sits beside her chained and otherwise silent, but watching them with a familiarity that is dry and more annoyed and amused then worried.

Even as he sits here, their prisoner, it's as if he isn't – as if this is only a part of the puzzle that is fitting together before his eyes and he's its maker and breaker. Only one among the Necro's is looking back into that gaze, and his very presence screams out the words –beware, be wary, I am watching, I am here, I am your leader – yet the way he looks and carries himself his somehow subdued to Harry, or Harry simply does not see him as a threat even as the very way he walks and moves tells her gut instincts to be watching and yet not noticed. Because, if there is one thing Kyra has learned, it's that when someone like that is watching you, you do not watch them back unless you want to be noticed. Yet, Harry is, and it's as if he simply doesn't care what this Nerco does…. or…or that he knows this Nerco.

"Yeah, I guess, but I didn't." Kyra says to fill the silence with something, and because she knows that Harry would keep his mouth shut unless spoken to, otherwise. Harry is odd like that, not speaking until he's spoken to, but always watching and it's like he's learning all the time, though it seems to Kyra that he is too good to learn anything else from the likes of them. Yet he does, he must, because he always reacts in ways both predictable and not. Not one, she thinks, should have had to have learned something like that.

"Why?" Harry asks her, as he knows as well as she does, where her loyalty is.

"He's…gone." Kyra says it, but not the real word, never that. But, for Harry, it is enough, he knows what she means. For a moment she thinks 'Harry isn't here' but that doesn't make sense, her brain and eyes tell her otherwise, and then Harry is looking at her, so still that he looks like a old Earth marble statue. Like something imagined, rather then something of flesh and blood.

"Vaako, do you believe her?" Harry asks of his watcher, and his question must take the Nerco by surprise for he only stares back, not answering. Harry, she can tell, thinks that's very rude.

"Did I…was I wrong?" Kyra hopes, and preys, that Harry will have some way of knowing the truth, that he will say "yes" and everything will be alright again. She can live with being wrong this time, every time, if it means seeing Riddick again. Yet, she fears that answer as well, if it's yes, if she left Riddick behind living and breathing as the sun was rising, he'd be as good as dead now. Its worse, that maybe 'yes', because it means she betrayed Riddick by leaving him, as good as killed him herself.

Harry never says yes, or no, he says something she didn't expect.

 _"_ It depends on the odds of the elements." Harry was watching for it, she realizes when the Nerco that's been watching him flinches away as if struck. His lips curl slowly upward, and she realizes that he is pleased with himself, and there is something very primitive in the way that Harry looks, smirking so darkly.

No one says anything for a very long time.

When they arrive, it's quick, and they are guided off the ship, watched carefully all the while. It's as if Harry and Kyra alone are a flock of sheep being herded to the butcher shack, but Kyra thinks maybe it's the other way around when the Lord Marshal (she knows this because the Nerco that's been watching Harry all the while says this title) greets them himself.

Still, he avoids looking Harry eye to eye as he gives his pretty speech, pretending not to see the wolf under sheep clothing.

"I have lost a Purifier...but I have gained a first among commanders. It is overdue, isn't it...that we acknowledge your many accomplishments, your steady faith _,_ and above all, your unflinching loyalty. Obedience without question. Loyalty till UnderVerse come. Well done, Vaako. This is a day of days." The Lord Marshal looks Harry in the eyes only then, and he makes a gesture then turns away, yet Harry pauses looking to Kyra even while knowing that he is going to follow. In that look is certain knowledge, a _knowing_ , of what is going to happen and it says _accept it, work with it_ , I will not leave you alone among them.

She knows and takes comfort in that look, even as Harry follows at the heels of a man who treats him something like a dog. It's that look that she'll remember, forever more. Yet she is not simply left alone, Vaako (the Necro who's watched Harry - and flinched - she'll remember their names and make curses of them) is approached by a woman, she slithers out of the shadows looking much like a predator for all that she looks like prey. She, though, is surely a predator because she's got the sort of arrogance no one who's been a victim would risk, to say what she does with Kyra listening.

"Look more pleased, Vaako. You have killed his enemy...and his suspicions." The nameless woman says, eyeing the retreating back of the Lord Marshal, Harry having slipped from her sight. Kyra kept her eyes down as she listened, knowing that what she learned would determine her actions, she felt – for a moment – that this must be what Harry felt when he was aware yet silent. This matter of fact calm, forced upon, and felt sympathy for him bubble up in her.

"I should have brought back his head." Vaako disagreed, with a soft hiss, he at least was not pretending that Kyra could not hear him but did not seem overly concerned either. It did not bode well.

"You saw him unbreathing. You saw him dead on the ground." The lady dismissed his concerns, coldly and without sympathy. She had her own agenda, and Kyra wondered if Vaako knew or cared that he was being used by this woman. "Riddick was no common breeder. In a heartbeat he dropped my men without touching them." Vaako's appreciation of Riddick's skills was, at least, genuine. Kyra had a moment to wonder how the two men would get along, had they met in another way.

"All mysteries are not miracles, not even in this religion. And if you say it is certain, then it is certain, and we've already said it, haven't we?" Arguing with the likes of her seemed a pointless prospect, and Vaako gave in with his next breath.

"We have." A slender hand settled on Kyra's shoulder, dark eyes met her brown, and Kyra said nothing as she was led away, following the swaying hips of a self assured predator that wore the skin of a woman. Even as that feminine company comfortably explained what would happen to her (become a Necromonger, a painful process; or die trying) Kyra knew what would be her choice, because she had to _survive_ for Harry (who could not be left alone, or damn the universe that was already on the way down the drain) he could save her, undo what had been done. Harry could and would; Kyra had to believe, because his last look to her had been a promise.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

If Aereon were truthful to herself, though the odds were against it, she had been expecting him to meet her eye to eye for quite some time. Perhaps it was the working of an old and guilty conscious, or some half-forgotten impossible instinct of prophesy that lurked in mysticism that Aereon might have –should have known to have suspect within her, all along.

One could not continuously see the odds correctly, no matter how adapt at mathematics or their possibilities. There should have long ago been something she'd gotten wrong, along the way – but, no – even the attack upon Furya she had suspected might occur (though certainly not at the scale it had been weighed) she had also done all she could to save the life of the Furyan child that might make all the difference, descendent of the feared Alpha known only to the 'verse as the "Killer of Man" for his ruthlessness; if his name had been known on his home world, only his mate, Shirah - her once friend, would have known it – such knowledge was lost with Furya's desolation. Only Riddick, son of their legacy, survived – that too, had been her doing. She had not watched too closely, could not afford for Zhylaw to take notice of her activities with a child upon her hip.

So, she had begged a favor of the man before her – the only true survivor of a race that had allied itself with Furya and paid a heavy price when the fiercest warrior people in all the 'verse had fallen. Harry would not have forgiven her such slights, the debts owed between them – of his people, possessing a innate talent of natural born magic's which she, among her own normally logical and benign people, the Elementals of Quintessa – had envied.

And when they had been slighted –rejected in such a way that they had never been by another people before that moment, and the alliance of their world and its mystics had been voted in favor of a people, the Furyans, who they knew to be ruthless and efficient only in destruction and harm – they had been enraged, and the practical placate, naturally neutral, had become what it was now. Seeking to reason away their moment of madness, of the destruction of two peoples - among their own natures, faulting opposites and balances lost, anything – but the truth – the truth that they _were not neutral,_ that among the stars they lived and died, just as any other people on any other world. They interacted, and were as alive as any other being. Such blunt facts they worried at, fearing. That they were not what they seemed, relying on emotion as much as math and odds, was what it meant to make an Elemental fear.

Aereon had learned to become ashamed of Quintessa. It was why she was envoy, trying to right wrongs she had inflicted in her madness, it was only right she see this to its end. That she built upon a fear of half-false prophesy, forcing Zhylaw to make mistakes that he would not ordinarily make, forcing him with trickery to jump at shadows and that, among the Necromongers, showed fear – it made him unworthy to be the Lord Marshal of the Legion Vast. Yet, now was not the time to dwell on such things. Now she sat face to face with him, and with Zhylaw – and must, above all things, amongst all regrets, speak carefully. Her death would serve no purpose. Yet with her life, she could force upon him his downfall, though he might never suspect it.

Harry though, Harry would know – or guess as he would say, he was surprisingly good at those guesses for one not born of Quintessa.

"Now, tell me if it's me the Furyan is gone, and I can close this campaign without hearing his boot steps." Zhylaw demanded, as was in his nature, absolutes. Yet there was no certainty in such things, as the Elementals had learned this from those of Earth, who had spread among the stars and left their own world to the legends and myths of their decedents, such was the stuff of dreams that Zhylaw chased. Among the three that stood in this room, only – perhaps – had Harry alone ever seen Earth's sky and stepped on its dirt. Harry could take Zhylaw to Earth and its ruins, his own revenge in seeing Zhylaw die with the preaching of UnderVerse in his dreams. Or he could help Aereon bring down this tyrant here, without seeing an Elemental dead.

"If he is dead, I sense I'm not far from the same fate, being of no further use here. Shouldn't I tell you that Riddick is still alive?" Zhylaw was pacing, paying no attention to Harry. She got a glimpse of his uncertainty, and wondered if Harry did not know, did not dare guess the truth. She had to know what he had to say, and to use the quickest way to rid them of Zhylaw would be to stir his anger.

"Don't try me, Aereon. I could plow you under with the rest of Helion Prime, saving Harry here for last." Odds were good that Harry too found amusement in that. Harry could kill Zhylaw with a word, and that he did not only meant that he was watching and waiting and learning, not that he would not do it at the end

"No one really knows the future." Aereon warned and teased with her words, smiling distantly.

"Then tell me the odds that Vaako met with success, that I will now be the one...who can carry his people across the threshold into UnderVerse, where they shall begin true life. Tell me what I want to hear, Aereon, and maybe I'll save your home world... for last." He hissed and spit like a serpent, intending to be deadly and dangerous. In this room, there was only one person Aereon feared and that was Harry, who was serpent speaker and tamer.

"The odds are good..." Aereon paused, catching Harry's eye and knowing she had his attention. He, above all, must not give into despair.

"That?" Zhylaw prompted, impatient. Aereon looked away from Harry, her eyes meeting Zhylaw pointedly for the first time he'd entered the room.

"That you will reach the UnderVerse...soon." There was more then one way for a Necromonger to go the Heaven that was Earth in their dreams, or so their religion promised. After all, of all the space flung decedents of Earth, only the Necromonger's most closely remembered with their ancestors tied to this time and place among them, distantly – they were the relics of Harry's people, and his loyalty to them would decide if Aereon died sooner rather then later. Zhylaw flung back his head as if struck.

He fled, leaving Harry in his wake.

Harry watched her now, unimpressed and displeased – some had died for less.

"I wonder, will your blood tie you to protect them in the end…or will you get revenge upon them for harming Riddick? He is, after all, of the race who your people allied themselves with against the choice of the Elementals." It stung still, that single damning choice that echoed even in the here and now, like the wave upon the shore. Harry was ancient now, an ancestor, for even Aereon had yet to have breath in those days.

"Your people got their way, did they not? For a time the ancestors of these Necromongers allied with the Elementals, and if it wasn't perfect, well, nothing is. You and your Elementals, always striving for perfection, still, even I wouldn't have done what you have to get revenge. Giving a despite man hope for his dying people, if only they massacre a whole generation of a dying breed. What you see now is what we so long ago attempted to prevent, the blood that runs in us must be kept in check, and the Elementals would sooner learn and study how much that blood can do, rather then put a stop to it. Ironic that our _prevention_ caused this..." Harry so rarely spoke of those days, they were a sore point, of that they had no doubt. Aereon memorized those words, later, if she lived, she would record them for the generations to come. Harry would never know that the Elementals were still so fascinated with him, the last of an all but extinct people; they had collected a library of information and lore of Harry, of his childhood, his children, his bloodline down the generations since, all they knew of magic and it's spells; what was there was not everything but it was enough that it made up the stuff of many an Elemental child's bed time story.

"You say they foresaw this – us? My… _prophesy_?" Aereon spat the word, for she knew that odd and practical were ever in doubt, but sometimes the mystic touched upon the cold logic of the Elementals, the nature of their people which they had tried and failed to bury. Harry's own people had kept the predictions of its "Seers" and a type of magic had been taught and studied among their peers and children. For her, it was not impossible to think that something would come true because people believed it to be so, and that was what she had counted on. Yet here Harry was, claiming it might very well be the other way around.

"Words hold power, let me tell you another prophecy, told before I was born. _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not...and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...._ It was as self-fulfilling as this event, because of belief, after all, is not belief a sort of magic all on its own?" Aereon noted the sour sarcasm in his tone, the irony that prophesies seemed to haunt Harry, and it was no wonder he was so wary of them.

It was then that the floor beneath her feet shuddered, and she needed no prophesy to know that the Legion Vast of the Necromonger Armada was moving, and in their wake, they would destroy the world below.


	10. "Silver Eyes Do Alight"

Dame Vaako stood at the balcony, staring down at the doomed world below. In this 'verse, worlds were built and made as often as they were needed for the masses and migration of humanity.

It was unnatural, to use the 'verse this way – so the Purifiers said. To watch a world be destroyed was the ultimate test of being a Necromonger. Few could claim to see worlds built, but every Necro' witnessed the death throes of worlds, the ruin of those who rejected the Necromonger way, scattered like dust over the 'verse.

Beneath her feet, the hull trembled; they were withdrawing from this world – but – it was too early. Dame Vaako's smile turned to a worried frown and she went in search of answers – and her protégé Kyra _._ There was no one better then she at breaking and making a Necro'; it was a skill she could be proud of, which no one could deny.

Silver eyes met Dame Vaako's sending a chill down her spine.

It was unexpected, for she had found herself unprepared for the sight. She remembered, vaguely, the shape – one among hundreds and thousands of Necromonger warriors. A host of them yet still moved around and beyond her, it was as useless to look for those eerie silver eyes as to look for a star in the open sky; lost, no where to be found.

Much like the Necromongers themselves, but now the Lord Marshal held the key, and it was the green eyed Harry. Dame Vaako goes quickly for Vaako, where the wizard is – and Aereon wind-witch from Quintessa.

She does not like being within that room, there is too much within it, can not say what sets her on edge; if it is magic, or life, or something _supernatural_ and not the science that is the Necromonger way, or something else altogether, the chill of threat of answers to questions that will to spill over if heeded.

It is almost too much to tolerate – and if she were alone she would not dare, but she slips into that room, the chamber which is supposed to be the Lord Marshal's prison, but is now so much more; simply because of who (and what) resides within there. Dame Vaako does not dare lift her eyes from the floor, for she fears she is being watched.

"He is here." By memory alone, she reaches her goal: Vaako's arm, she looks up fleetingly, and gleaming green eyes catch her dark ones. She is so still she might as well be frozen; she wonders if this is what it feels like to be prey, to be caught.

"Is he now? Most interesting – would you not agree, Aereon?" Harry drawls softly, looking to her husband for all that he addresses the wind-witch. He smiles, pleased, at whatever expression Vaako shows, her Vaako, who has always been far too expressive.

It was that face, which had attracted her - rather then any lack of skill that had held him back so long– but the Dame does not dare to glimpse or look away from the abyss that is within those green eyes. If she does, she feels as if she'll be devoured.

"Indeed." Aereon all but purrs the word, as if she's never looked forward to something more. Dame Vaako thinks that however bad the wind-witch _thinks_ the Necromongers are whatever madness Harry is to her, Aereon is in good company – just as mad as anyone here – at least.

"You will take me to Zhylaw, and I will end this." It's a promise the way Harry says it, as if he's had enough and can't be bothered to play anymore – but this isn't a game.

It's her life – or death.

She feels the look Vaako gives her, lingering and full of the old sorrow; as if she's betrayed him somehow – yet he still feels for her. Weaker men might claim the feeling for love, but both Vaako and his Dame know better.

"Follow me." Vaako says, and she is not surprised.

Harry obeys this request, but he is silent and Dame Vaako dares not tempt her fate – which lies in the hands of this wizard – by moving away. To do so would be foolish. Chains rattle and slide against the floor, and Aereon follows all.

No one comes to halt them as they make their way though the halls, from prison chambers to the inner throne, it's as if Vaako and the Dame are all the Necromongers that remain within. Its magic, Dame Vaako realizes her gaze sliding to Harry's feet, wizard magic. Magic that is lost to the Necromongers, yet now –maddeningly - within their reach.

Harry slips between the Necromongers gathered in the throne chamber, as if he does not have a noble prisoner in hand, and Vaako is merely another warrior – Aereon though, lingers at the fringes as if she does not quite trust Harry so much, or does not dare.

She looks about herself, at her people, and she finds she is both astonished and agonized - it's as if _no one sees_ , truly, why they move out of Harry's way – allowing him mindlessly to pass - without truly knowing that he's _there_ at all. If questioned, could they tell who had passed them? She wonders, and fears that frantic question and answer – this is as eerie as a ghost, and more, it's magic – now that she knows what to look for.

It surrounds Harry, no – _it is Harry_. As if the two are one, and neither can be real without the other; Harry is magic, and magic is Harry. Harry stops abruptly, and the Dame looks about but can not tell why.

Then she sees him, Zhylaw – the Lord Marshal.

 _You keep what you kill_ , the rule – the law. She closes her eyes, pained, for she can not look and see all her work fall to nothing; even as her own words mock her into silence, Zhylaw is mortal – but Harry, Harry is not.

She hears the clang of Necromonger steel against the stone floor, her eyes flinch open.

Zhylaw is looking straight at them, but it's clear he does not _see_ them – his focus is upon another, lean limbed and shaved bald, the silver eyed man has his back to them. A Necromonger helmet lies at his feet, as if he's already defeated them and they don't know it yet. Riddick can't know that Harry stands at his back.

"Riddick..." The Lord Marshal is pleased – and surprised.

"You've made a mistake." Riddick growls so low his voice rumbles like a purr.

"I've a gift for you, if you can forgive my mistake." With a gesture the Lord Marshal summons forward someone bedecked in a black hooded robe. Riddick turns and tenses, he's noticed that this figure comes in-between them; a challenge that he can't read any other way as being in the favor of the Lord Marshal. Riddick probably isn't aware that he mouths the word "Harry" as if in prayer.

It isn't Harry, Dame Vaako knows, her hands twisted into knots as she wonders what reaction Harry – or Riddick – will have to what is about to happen. Neither is predictable, yet upon their reaction hinges survival.

"Kyra. Are you with me? " Riddick says softly, as if it isn't a surprise, as if he expected her all along and didn't hope for another. Kyra _smiles_ and they way she does, Riddick's attention narrows to her.

"There is another way, Riddick." Her voice is soft and soothing, reasoning, as if her words aren't madness.

"Kyra – are you with me…? Where is Harry?" Riddick takes a step back, as if struck by words alone; and Kyra moves to stand between Riddick and the Lord Marshal.

"Harry this, Harry that – don't you see Riddick?" Kyra's hand waves to encompass the whole of the crowd, unknown to Riddick she had answered his question – for a brief moment her eyes met Harry's – and then she looked back to Riddick.

"He's let the universe rot, all humanity has ever worked for, he sees it going down the drain – just like you – and he does _nothing_. He will never do anything. We must take action; we must save those we can – while we can." Kyra moves to look over the Nercomongers, gathered around them, but held back by the gesture and words of their Lord Marshal.

"The Nercomonger Way, Riddick – join us, and you will see the glory of Underverse. I would convert you, and we both know that if you and Kyra were mine, Harry would follow you." The Lord Marshal says, and Kyra comes to stand beside Zhylaw; her loyalty seemingly chosen, as if it is a physical thing. Where others would shudder, Riddick is so very still in his fury. He tears his gaze away from Kyra, and painfully closes them – when his eyes open they gleam silver in the light.

"You'll see the Underverse," Riddick promises, grinning or grimacing at the lot of them in disgust, "I won't."

"So be it." Saddened, as if by the thought of losing Riddick as a puppet, but also eager -he can't imagine anyone able to best him, he's been in power too long, and when this fight is over one way or another he won't fear the Furyans for Riddick is the last of his people.

" _Nox_." Harry whispers softly, as if to begin a lullaby. The lights go out, all the lights – it is so dark within that it seems every star has becomes dark and cold – and maybe it is so.

Riddick's eyes still shine silver in the dark.

"Thanks, Harry." Riddick's voice is the only one that speaks, all the rest are hushed and waiting.

Harry can't see either, Dame Vaako realizes, he's eyes are closed – but he is listening, so she learns from him, following his example she closes he eyes – and _sees._

 _You keep what you kill_ ; the law rings in her ears.

Riddick is going after the Lord Marshal, striking out with no intention of holding back – it's as if he's a man who's lost so much he can't imagine not surviving this. Dame Vaako wonders what he's seen, what he's lived though, that could be so much worse then this.

Riddick yells out, and she can imagine – or see – she doesn't know which is which anymore – not with Harry standing there beside her. Riddick is going for the kill, striking down at the Lord Marshal, and then one word is hissed from Nercomonger lips.

" _Lumos_!"

Light blooms in front of Riddick's face like a flower, all at once exploding – it's a trick, light being used as a weapon, Riddick cries out, jerking away in pain. His eyes shut tight, and blood falls down his cheeks like tears.

Dame Vaako opens her eyes, and the light hurts. It's as if the ache is an echo of Riddick's own pain, shared among them – and she wonders how much worse it is, for Riddick.

"Come out!" Zhylaw screams, looking into the crowd of Nercomonger faces, who are impassive as he searches them, circling and pacing the arena they in turn encircle. Riddick groans and moves away from him whenever he moves, he can hear, even if he does not see.

"I know you are here – I know your tricks!" Zhylaw motions for one of the Necromonger warriors to strike Riddick down like a rabid dog, useless – and soon to be dead. It's a ploy, but Kyra can not see that, she rushes toward the attacker intent on doing damage with a little blade.

Zhylaw strikes out at her with thin air – it slices visibly into her clothes and sends her flying into a pillar of sharp spines. Dame Vaako is not unfeeling, for a bond between a Necromonger and a newly converted Necromonger is one of their most sacred – she gasps softly, pained as she fears to see the life of the girl - one of _her own_ – a Necromonger, so swiftly ended.

Kyra is bait.

Harry takes it. It defies logic when Kyra hovers over the wickedly tipped spine, as if cradled within a hand. Harry steps forward, his hand is outstretched toward Kyra, reaching – as if he can not see any but her, his focus so narrowed to saving her life.

The Lord Marshals grin is a horror to behold, sickening triumphant.

Harry lifts his hand, and Kyra moves away from the spire, slowly and deliberately, she is moving toward the upper balcony; out of harms way. A fall from that height won't kill her, but it will cripple.

"Harry!" Dame Vaako hears Kyra's cry of warning – and Riddick's head jerks up, forcing his eyes open.

It's in time to see Zhylaw strike.

Dame Vaako smiles past the killing blow, the sword jerks out of her body with the Lord Marshals shock. Her hands shake as she keeps the weapon in her as long as she can, she is aware of Vaako's cry of outrage, of his sword swinging in a killing blow.

Zhylaw flickers in her sight, and she does not think it is merely that she is dying that she sees – or perhaps it is _because_ she is dying that she does, and understands – he is escaping. He lets go of the weapon buried within her, spilling her guts and blood upon the stone plated floor.

She is not alone in seeing Zhylaw flee, she realizes only when she hears a shiv buried in the Lord Marshal's skull. Vaako looks up at her, kneeling on the floor - his sword having fallen beside him in the strike. Dame Vaako falls into his arms, and there is no where else she would rather be. Maybe, just maybe, it is love between them. She is sorry it is too late to tell him.

"You will not die yet." Harry promises her, his green eyes like life giving flame, forcing her to awareness – it is painful, but he must be told. With every breath feeling like the last, she warns.

"Y-you keep what you kill." At the corner of her eye she sees, around her Nercomongers are falling to their knees like the sea tide withdrawing from the shore. They bow their heads to the one still standing, as Riddick stumbles onto the throne, seeking the high ground on instinct. Riddick looks to Kyra when she laughs, and then to Harry when he speaks; he looks at peace.

"So be it." Harry heals her, and Dame Vaako knows he will heal them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, it had to end like this.
> 
> Actually no, I had no idea what would happen until I started typing after having a rather vivid dream of Kyra's death being replayed, almost, then cradled in the air as if a hand were protecting her.
> 
> Harry then proceeded to talk to me (I think). Necromongers are wizards that set out to seed the worlds in our ancient past; Quintessa, the world of the Elementals is a world of logical people gifted with powers they don't understand; and Furya was a world that embraced the primitive magic within them – when Earth ventured to explore, Furya and Quintessa stood closest to Earth, at the very doorstep of the Milky Way, and Earth and it's people chose to ally with Furya – it was a very brief alliance, for afterward Quintessa allied with the Nercomongers who they found scatted at the very dark corners of the galaxy, trying to make their way to 'Underverse' (as they reckoned space travel they had gone 'up' from Earth, so had to go 'under') Aereon gave a certain prophesy, and the Nercomongers started destroying the worlds they had seeded in search for Furyans, incidentally most of wizard kind were among those on Furya.
> 
> Harry survived because he wasn't where he was supposed to be; and as for Riddick, when Zhylaw strangled him as an infant, he was left for dead in a bin – where Harry found him, and then stole him and fled. They were separated in transport; and Harry spent a good fifteen years tracking Riddick down.

**Author's Note:**

> Riddick/Harry; it "starts" in Pitch Black, when Riddick spoke to Fry in the skimmer. Then it "jumps" in the next chapter. I don't want to delay the meeting too long, just enough so you see how things have changed and have a moment to wonder how it all came to be.


End file.
